


Boiling Point

by GoldenTruth813



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Bars and Pubs, Bearded Draco Malfoy, Bickering, Bisexual Harry Potter, Boys Kissing, Coming Out, Drunk Harry Potter, Duelling, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Flirting, Friendship, Frottage, H/D Food Fair 2018, Hand Jobs, Harry Potter Cooks, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Missions Gone Wrong, Never Have I Ever, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, References to Past Canonical Child Neglect, Romance, Slow Burn, Snark, Social drinking, Tattooed Harry Potter, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wandless Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 21:37:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15981002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813
Summary: Ferveret-n. boiling pointAfter an Auror raid gone wrong, Draco ends up trapped in a dodgy safehouse with nothing but Harry Potter’s dubious company and a dwindling supply of food. With only each other and the walls surrounding them, they're forced to confront their past and their feelings which have long been threatening to boil over.





	Boiling Point

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[89](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1E_uQJlIb5C6nLnMg8VrUUnrKtyx16is1FLbyvoxLEik/edit).
> 
> This fic wouldn't be here without the support of so many wonderful people. To carpemermaidtales er for helping me flesh out plot and giving me the confidence to tackle this story, my amazing betas aibidil and TDCats for dealing with my grammar issues and making this the best it could be, and violetclarity who helped me with all my food-related questions. You're all amazing.

**3rd October 2002 - 5:22 pm**

Draco slides his feet to the left —slowly, quietly, the wet grass squelching beneath his heavy boots—as he turns in a half circle to assess the perimeter. The park is small, a few swings swaying in the wind and an abandoned roundabout with peeling red and blue paint. There is a rusty slide to his left and the weeds are so overgrown it's clear that even without the strong Muggle-Repelling Charms on this place, no one has been here in ages.

Despite the fact that Draco can’t see anyone, he knows they are not alone. The edge of the park is surrounded in dense trees and overgrown bushes and fog rolling in, as abundant as it is oppressive. The air is thick and heavy with the insidious weight of Dark magic—he can practically taste it on his tongue, bitter and repulsive—and Draco’s chest tightens as he’s assaulted with memories of the last time he was surrounded by this much Dark magic. Draco’s head whips to the side as the roundabout begins to spin, creaking as it turns as if by an invisible hand.

Everything in his body is screaming that this is _wrong_. His instincts tell him to run, to flee, but he stays, his feet planted firmly on the ground. The only thing keeping him in place is Potter’s back pressed against his own—warm, solid, familiar. They are a team. They’ve spent the last few years preparing for something exactly like this. _This_ it turns out is not, as Robards had insisted before the raid this morning, a simple endeavour to capture a few wayward vandals looking to upstart a harmless group of neo-Death Eaters. Whatever this neo-Death Eater group is, it is clearly not some ragtag teenagers slipping a few cursed objects onto the shelves of the shops on Diagon Alley or spelling Dark Mark posters to the sides of buildings with Permanent Sticking Charms. This is absolutely not a handoff of propaganda between low-level members, despite what they’d been told.

“Potter, something’s wrong.” Draco brings his left hand up to rub at his face nervously, fingers grazing on the hairs of his beard.

“You don’t fucking say.” Potter’s shoulders tense as he presses himself back, his shoulder blades digging into Draco’s back even through the thick material of their Auror robes. Potter’s feet move in sync with Draco’s as they move towards the centre of the park, closing in on the play structures.

“We need to—” But Draco’s words are cut off by the whizzing sound of a hex just missing him, the tip of his left ear. “Fuck.”

“Get down!” Potter yells, though Draco is already ducking, barely missing another hex. 

Draco doesn't have long to wonder how many people are there before several figures glimmer into existence in the distance. At least three people are visible, and Merlin knows how many behind him if Potter’s swearing is any indication.

“I think they were expecting us,” Potter says, his back once again pressed firmly against Draco’s and he doesn’t need to be able to see him to know he’s got his hand outstretched, likely clenching his wand so tightly his knuckles are turning white. His nerves are momentarily bolstered by Potter’s even voice. Potter is a good partner. The only person he’d trust in their current situation.

“Potter, I—”

“Tell me you’re sorry later!” Potter shouts, sending off several hexes, which, if the loud thuds that follow are any indication, send several assailants falling to the ground. 

Potter’s words barely register and Draco doesn’t have time to wonder at them, not with the rapid-fire hexes coming their way. Nothing is how it's supposed to be. There are too many of them, something is wrong, and they’re rapidly losing the last rays of light.

“We need to get out of here,” Draco yells.

“The Anti-Disapparition wards should be dissolving in—shit,” Potter groans, and before Draco knows what’s happening, Potter has tackled him to the ground. “Should be gone any minute. Ron said the team would have the wards dismantled before we’d taken a spin on the roundabout.” Potter’s voice is surprisingly light considering he’s laying atop Draco amid a shower of curses and hexes.

“Potter, _move_ ,” Draco groans. Potter rolls off him immediately, moving into a crouched position, but before Draco can get another word out there’s a blinding flash of green light heading straight for Potter’s back. 

Draco’s entire body goes rigid as if he’s been hit with a Body-Bind Curse; his blood turns to ice and things seem to move in slow motion. He opens his mouth, can hear himself screaming _Harry_ as if it is someone else’s voice echoing desperate and fraught in the darkness. Potter whips his head around just in time to see the spell coming straight for him but there’s nowhere to go, nothing they can do, nothing Draco can do. He can practically feel the death upon his fingertips, as if this too is his fault, his heart clenching because this cannot be happening. This cannot fucking be happening.

Potter’s hands close around his wrist, grip like a vice, and then Potter is covering Draco’s body with his own as if Draco is the one in danger, as if the spell had been meant for him. Potter is speaking but Draco can’t make out the words, his ears buzzing so loud all he can do is keep his eyes open to stare at the wisps of hair curling around Potter’s left ear; the spell comes so close that Draco tastes their mortality before the familiar buzz of Potter’s magic surrounds him, the wards dismantle, and then poof, they’re gone.

Moments later they pop back into existence. Though where they are, Draco doesn’t have a fucking clue. He quickly casts _Homenum revelio_ but when he realises they are in fact alone, he lets his wand fall to the floor as he closes his eyes and tries to steady his breathing, willing his heart to stop beating so fast. It takes them a few minutes to calm down and orient themselves, and when Potter finally rolls off of his body to collapse on the hard wooden floor beside him, Draco does his best to repress a noise of disappointment at the loss of his solid warmth—the tangible proof Potter is alive.

“Where the bloody hell are we?” Draco asks once he gets his faculties back enough to rise into a sitting position. He scoots a few inches away from Potter, physically resisting the urge to reach out and pat Potter down to make sure he’s alright. His heart is racing, his mind working overtime trying to understand what went wrong and where they are, but nothing feels more pressing than the need to reassure himself that Potter didn’t get hurt.

Potter is still laying on the floor with his arm thrown over his face and if it weren't for the steady rise and fall of his chest Draco would worry he were dead. Draco takes the opportunity to visually check him for injuries, eyes trailing down the long line of his Auror robes, which look singed as if he’d walked through Fiendfyre, down to his Auror regulation black boots peeking out from beneath the hem of his robes. The soles are covered in mud and there’s a crushed daisy near the toe of his right boot. 

Upon their graduation from training, he and Potter and all the other junior Aurors had been given field robes. Draco had balked at all the charms woven into them, wondering why they were necessary. It made the robes feel heavy—though if that were an emotional or physical weight Draco had never been sure—but seeing the evidence of their efficiency now, Draco thinks perhaps they are more useful than he’s ever wanted to admit. It wasn’t that Draco hadn’t known being an Auror would be dangerous; he wasn’t daft. It was just that he rather expected to have a much longer career before he had a near death experience to share, or before he came so close to losing his partner.

Draco swallows the lump in his throat at the thought and nudges Potter’s foot with his own boot, which is just as dirty. “Well, where the fuck have you taken us?”

Potter slowly drags his arm off his face to look at Draco, who can’t seem to stop staring. If Potter minds, he doesn’t say so. “I don’t know,” Potter answers, blinking his ridiculously bright eyes at Draco before he looks around the dingy room.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Draco tries to keep the incredulity out of his voice, but fails.

“I mean exactly what I said. I always mean what I say.” His voice is even and there’s a pointed look directed at Draco, who flushes, turning away. They can’t do this now. They have more pressing matters to attend to. Like figuring out where the hell they are.

“You can’t just Apparate somewhere you’ve never been. It’s not possible!”

“Yeah well, lots of things are impossible until they’re...well, until they’re not.” Potter seems decidedly calm about the fact that they are in a completely unknown location, which for some reason annoys Draco even more. Potter rises to stand, beginning to circle the room and Draco feels something inside of him snap.

“I really feel like you should be more concerned about where we are, since it’s all your fault.”

Potter stops moving when he hears the words, his outstretched hand dropping to his side and his eyebrows knitting together as his mouth falls open. “ _My_ fault?”

Draco clears his throat. He hates when Potter uses that tone of voice on him. It’s the tone of voice he’s supposed to use on other people when they’ve annoyed him, not on _Draco_. It’s been a long time since he was on the receiving end of that tone of voice, and he has not missed it. “Yes, you heard me. Your fault.” 

He knows he’s being a bit of an arse, and he doesn’t care. Potter almost _died,_ and Draco was useless, and now they’re stuck Merlin knows where, and there is nothing Draco can do, and he doesn’t like this one bit—doesn’t like feeling out of control.

“Fucking arsehole,” Potter grumbles, rubbing his hands over his face. He blows out a heavy breath and fixes his eyes on Draco. Draco almost wishes he would look somewhere else. Potter’s gaze is intense, unyielding, and makes something tighten in his chest. “Look, I didn’t—I just needed to get us out of there. I needed to protect you.”

“You needed to—wait, what? Protect me? For fuck’s sake, Potter, that Avada Kedavra was meant for you! It was coming right at you. You are utterly unbelievable.”

Potter waves his hand dismissively, as if nearly being murdered is simply a mild inconvenience. “But it missed, didn’t it? Anyway, I could feel the wards weakening so I just sort of, I dunno, pushed my magic at them and broke them.” Draco makes a choking sound at this admission but Potter ignores him and continues to speak. “And then I don’t know really, I just knew we needed to get out of there. I was just thinking how much we needed to be somewhere safe so I closed my eyes and just focused on leaving, and then when I opened my eyes again we were here.”

Draco’s mouth falls open, and he can’t decide what bit of Potter’s confession to address fist—the fact that Potter has once again played down almost dying as if they are talking about something as mundane as the weather, or the fact that he can so casually talk about things like _feeling_ wards and breaking them, as if it's a completely normal thing and not indicative of his ridiculous magic, as if everyone can sense magic or has access to the type of raw magical power Potter possesses. Fucking Potter. Draco settles for the first, since talking about the second would require Draco to admit Potter is powerful and while they both know it’s true, he has no intention of admitting it out loud, especially not right now.

“That’s not even how Apparition works, you pillock! You're supposed to know where you’re going. It’s not supposed to be possible to Apparate somewhere you’ve never been. You could’ve Splinched us! Or you! That was reckless and dangerous. For fuck’s sake.”

Potter is unbothered by the reprimand as he clears his throat and shrugs his shoulders in an all-too-familiar way. “Well, we're not Splinched, are we? We’re fine. _I’m_ fine.”

Potter doesn’t look fine. He looks exhausted, probably drained from overexerting his magic. His face is marred with lines, and there’s a heaviness in his body that makes him seem vulnerable in a way Draco’s not at all comfortable with.

“You have absolutely zero regard for your own safety, do you know that? You are the most maddening, stubborn—”

“Stop.”

“Careless—”

“Malfoy, seriously.”

Draco continues, undeterred. “Difficult wizard, unable to stay out of trouble—”

“Shut up, you tit.”

“Insufferable—”

“I know where we are!” Potter finally yells, breaking through Draco’s tirade. Draco closes his eyes for a brief moment, inhaling and exhaling slowly before opening them again. Potter is standing on the opposite side of the room—his mop of hair is long enough it's curling at his chin, there’s a scratch across his left cheek and his glasses are smudged. He looks like shit, and all Draco can think about is the fact that he almost died. Potter licks his lips and watches Draco cross the room, every footstep echoing.

“Potter,” Draco tries, but he’s already turned away from Draco to face the ornate bookshelf in the corner. 

“Look at these,” Potter says as he traces his fingers across the dusty spines of the books in front of him. _Marcel’s Magical Maladies_ , _Auror Academy Adventures_ , _Cooking Conundrums_ _and Baking Banshees Banished, 101 Uses for Aguamenti, Exploding Snap and Towering Toodles: Games for the Bored Witch or Wizard, Hogwarts Through the Ages: Revised Edition,_ and last but not least _Wars and Wounds: the True History of Hogwarts_ by Hermione Granger.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow. So they like to read. We’re in a wizarding home, obviously.” Draco pushes down the prickle of annoyance he feels at Potter figuring something out before him.

“We’re in Tutum.”

“The Wizarding safehouse in Bedfordshire?” Draco is unable to keep the surprise from his voice. He’d not heard that name in a while. He racks his brain to recall anything about this particular safehouse, which was shut down by the Ministry after a particular nasty case. About two years ago, just after he and Potter had finished their first year of training, a family hiding here had been ambushed on transit to a new location closer to Wales. It’d been a complete and utter tragedy and no one, not even the children or their family crup, had survived. The case had shaken the Auror department and the wizarding community. The story had made all the wizarding papers, and while the location of the safehouse hadn’t been named specifically, everyone in the Auror department knew which one it was. It’d been a nightmare keeping the Muggles unaware of what was happening when the house itself seemed to draw on its sentient magic and kept pulling groups of people into the house when it sensed they were in danger. The problem was the house seemed unable to differentiate between a bus of Muggle tourists who were scared they were lost in London and wizards actually in dire need of Auror protection. After the third time the Obliviators had been called to fix the problem, the safehouse had been heavily warded and taken out of use. “How the bloody hell do you know that?”

Potter turns his head away from the books and Draco’s stomach flips at the sight of Potter’s pleased smile, which spreads across his face making the weary lines that were there only moments ago fade into the background like a distant memory. After an evening of the unexpected and unknown, Draco’s body fills with warmth at the familiar sight, even if the cocky tilt of his raised eyebrow is due entirely to Potter’s pleasure at having figured something out before Draco. It’s a game he thinks he’ll never tire of—both of them always trying to one-up each other—a perpetual competition that’s lost its bite and now holds only the thrill of finding someone who is equally matched in intelligence and skill, someone who isn't afraid to challenge him.

“The books. One of our end-of-year training tests included studying the way the Aurors had taken inventory of the safehouse before it was closed off. Don’t you remember? We were supposed to learn how to itemise evidence. You kept reciting the itemised list of things in the house over and over while we ate takeaway. I remember because you’d lost the duel that week so I got to pick the food and you were in a strop because I’d ordered sweet and sour chicken and pork satay and you wanted curry, so you were a complete stubborn arse and just read the entire text aloud while I ate.”

“I didn’t know you listened when I spoke,” Draco says, proud of the way his voice betrays none of the shakiness he feels.

“It’s been known to happen.” Potter laughs, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes crinkle in the corners. 

Draco’s throat tightens and he’s unwilling to examine why the world feels decidedly off-centre. 

****

***~*~***

**1st August 1999**

“Absolutely not,” Draco drawls, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I don’t believe I asked you a question, Mr Malfoy.” McKinnon’s tone is firm. “You are a junior Auror like the other witches and wizards in this room. You are here because you applied to this programme and were accepted in large part because of your impeccable NEWT scores and a recommendation letter from Headmaster McGonagall that was quite honestly the most glowing endorsement I have read in my ten years at the Ministry. You’re smart and you’re capable, but you’re also under some delusion that you get to decide how this goes. So let me tell you how this is going to go. I am your boss. I am in charge of training. When I say jump, you say ‘how high?’ When I say cast a spell, you say ‘which one, sir?’ When I say partner up with Mr Potter, you say ‘right away, sir.’ Are we understood?”

Draco clenches his jaw, willing away the tension in his shoulders. He worked damn hard to earn his spot here, and he’s not about to screw it up, especially over Potter. Besides, how hard could being Potter’s training partner be? Just this once.

“Yes, sir,” he replies.

McKinnon doesn’t smile, but the look of distaste begins to fade from his face.

“Potter,” McKinnon hollers, and Potter immediately straightens up, trying and failing to school his features into something serious. Weasley’s face begins to turn bright red, as if the force of holding in his laughter might actually make his head implode. Draco pushes aside the twinge of jealousy at the easy way Potter and Weasley laugh and joke, the way Potter’s got his shoulder pressed into Weasley’s. Draco’s been doing just fine on his own for the last year, and wishing for friendships he can’t have and doesn’t need isn’t going to get him anywhere. The only thing that will get him anywhere is this right now—working hard, proving he’s changed. Draco learned long ago that while words could destroy you, they could not save you—only actions could do that.

“Yes, sir?” Potter asks, chewing on the inside of his left cheek. He looks far too happy for half past six on a Tuesday morning, and Draco hates him for it. It gives him comfort to find small things to dislike about Potter, since he can no longer muster the energy to hate the other things about him—his courage, his compassion, his bravery. But his ability to laugh when he should be looking ready to fall back into bed like everyone else, except maybe Weasley— well, Draco can definitely hate him for that with a clear conscience. 

“You’re with Malfoy for today, and Weasley wipe that frown off your face. This is the Aurors, not Hogwarts, and you don’t get to stay with Potter and make friendship bracelets for the next two years.”

Draco tries not to let the small bit of satisfaction he feels show on his face. If he’s got to be uncomfortable, it only seems fair everyone else will have to be as well. Weasley looks ready to argue, but Potter places a hand on his arm, leaning in to whisper something that has Weasley glaring daggers at Malfoy before nodding. He still looks ready to disagree with the day’s duelling assignments, but whatever Potter has said to him seems to have calmed his temper enough that he says nothing when Potter walks across the training room to stand beside Draco.

“Good. That’s the kind of behaviour I expect.” McKinnon grasps his hands behind his back as he circles the room. “Weasley, you’re with Finnegan. Patil, you’re with Goldstein…” 

The rest of McKinnon’s assignments are drowned out by the sound of Potter making some sort of strange noise in the back of his throat and Draco has to control the urge to kick him. Potter makes him feel ten years old again—juvenile and unable to control his emotions—but Draco knows he just has to try harder.

It’s not like he hasn’t been around Potter over the last fortnight since their training began. It’s just that up until today, he’d not actually interacted with Potter specifically. In fact, he hadn’t actually spoken to Potter since a few weeks after the war, when Potter had returned his wand along with a letter for Draco to present to the Wizengamot at his trial the following month. It’d taken Draco forty-nine hours to work up the courage to read the letter and longer still to shake the sense of being undeserving of its contents. Potter, as always, had been so fucking moral as he’d laid out how Draco’s refusal to identify him at the manor had allowed him to escape and end the war. Draco hadn’t been sure if Potter truly believed all the things he wrote in that letter about Draco being a victim of circumstance and being capable of more than his poor choices, or if it was some weird sense of guilt or responsibility he felt because of the way Draco’s mother had helped save Potter’s life. Perhaps Potter felt indebted to save Draco because of sheer obligation. Draco had thought for years he knew everything there was to know about Potter, but life had shown him he knew very little about him or the things that motivated him. Potter was a strange amalgamation of morally grey choices and convictions, sharp as a knife.

Draco had taken the letter to his trial, unsurprised by the weight Potter’s testimony held. He’d been given three months of house arrest and a year of probation, as well as permission to return to Hogwarts for his eighth year. Of course Draco hadn’t returned, not like Potter and his friends or the handful of other misplaced students looking, Draco suspected, more to put off becoming an adult than to get more education. Instead he’d finished his coursework by correspondence, hiding out in his parents’ house in the south of France. He’d returned to England only to sit for his NEWTs, unsure who was more surprised to see him step foot on the Hogwarts grounds, himself or the other students. The hush that had fallen in the examination room the first day had been nearly suffocating, but Draco had squared his shoulders, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes and leaving before anyone could engage him in conversation. Not that he actually thought they would, if the way the other students had shifted awkwardly in their chairs, the legs scraping loudly across the tile floor as several people tried to move farther away from him were any indication.

His results had come by owl several weeks later, along with a personal letter from Headmistress McGonagall congratulating him on his high marks and wishing him luck on any future endeavours. Draco wondered if she’d sent a letter to all the others or if he was once again being singled out. He felt equal parts grateful and uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of that kind of praise. He’d been on the receiving end of praise most of his life, for all the wrong reasons. Even now, after the war, the idea of accepting it made Draco burn with the shame of being undeserving. So many other people seemed so sure Draco deserved a second chance; it was hard to put into words why he was the only one who had trouble believing it. 

It was the following morning, just as Draco was brewing a rather strong cup of black tea in the hope of it providing him some emotional fortification for the day ahead, that he had noticed the pamphlet on the floor near the larder. His mother had been halfway through recounting the morning news—something she’d taken to doing since Draco refused to read the _Daily Prophet_ , and something she refused to stop doing despite Draco’s assertions that he didn’t care to keep up with the remaining Death Eater trials or the wizarding world’s fascination with what career Potter would choose now that he was out of school—when he’d bent down to pick it up. His mother, face buried behind the morning paper, was oblivious as he opened the larder door and shuffled inside to peruse the pamphlet in peace. It felt sordid somehow, reading about what it would take to be accepted into the Aurors, sandwiched in between his mother’s best china that the Ministry hadn’t confiscated and a row of sausages hanging on the wall near his shoulder. His fingers had traced over the glimmering words along the bottom— _You Are the Future_.

“Draco!” his mother had yelled. Draco shoved the pamphlet into his pocket, knocking the sausages to the floor and scrambling for the jar of sugar on the shelf behind him as he nearly fell out of the door mumbling something about needing to sweeten his tea. His mother had lowered the paper and watched him fill the already full sugar dish, but she did not question his motives. 

“Are you ready?” Potter’s voice breaks through his thoughts and Draco feels his forehead scrunch in a frown. What the fuck kind of question is that? 

“I’m as ready as you are, Potter.”

Potter, the absolute tosspot, laughs. “Fuck, I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Been thinking about duelling me often, have you?” Draco asks, his body thrumming with adrenaline already. 

Potter licks his lips, shaking the hair off his forehead as he moves into a duelling position opposite Draco. He’s dressed in the exact same Auror-issue grey trackies and plain cotton t-shirt with the word _trainee_ written across the front, but somehow he wears them as if they are a badge of honour and not a mark of their subordinate status in the department. Potter looks confident in a way no other person there does.

“Maybe I have. What of it?” Potter asks, moving his left leg behind him, turning his hips to the side and extending his wand out. Draco thinks he should feel unnerved to be on the opposite end of Potter’s wand, but he doesn't. He knows Potter won’t start until he’s ready, knows Potter has the kind of honour the people they’re preparing to catch and fight won't have—the kind of honour he’s never had.

“Just don’t let me win,” Draco finds himself saying, moving back a few feet until his body is positioned like a mirror image of Potter’s, his stance wide and his wand high—his posture displaying the kind of surety and confidence his heart can’t muster, at least not yet.

An unreadable expression passes across Potter’s face as he wiggles his fingers on his wand, tightening his hold. “What makes you think I’d do that?”

“Just...don’t. Don’t take it easy on me. Don’t hold back,” Draco says, voice clipped. He can’t explain why this is important, but it is. They might not be equals out there, in the real world, but in here in the training room they are, and Draco feels desperate to be treated as such. 

The look that graces Potter’s face this time is unmistakable—his eyes blazing with adrenaline—as he tries to keep his body still. Potter’s magic is practically vibrating off the walls, his feet tapping, legs quivering, and eyes unblinking. Draco wonders if anyone else has noticed it, noticed them. A quick glance around the room assures him everyone else is too preoccupied preparing to duel to pay him and Potter any mind, but Draco notices. Merlin, does he notice.

“Trust me, I’m not going to take it easy on you.”

“Trainees ready,” McKinnon hollers, momentarily breaking Draco’s focus as he watches their instructor weave in and out of the partners to stand on the far side of the room. Draco closes his eyes and takes three steadying breaths before opening them again, his eyes fixed on Potter. Everyone else in the room seems to disappear, the dull hum of chatter disappearing as Draco’s eyes focus on the slow rise and fall of Potter’s chest. Everything else—their past, their future—fades away until nothing is left but the two of them—right here, right now.

“Good,” Draco whispers, feeling a genuine thrill of excitement for the first time in longer than he can remember. It shouldn’t be like this. Potter shouldn’t still be one of the only people to make him feel alive. He loves and hates him more for it. 

“Fight to disarm, not to injure. On the count of three,” McKinnon says, voice amplified by a _Sonorus_. “One—” Draco steels his shoulders, “two—,” his heart rate increases, mouth dry and reflexes ready like the time he’d tried to pet a Hippogriff. Potter might not be as wild as the beast, but he’s definitely as dangerous, as unpredictable, “—three.”

Draco’s barely got his wand moving before Potter shouts _Expelliarmus_ and Draco’s wand flies through the air and right into Potter’s outstretched hand.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Potter! Don’t you know any other spells?” 

Potter flips him off around his own wand. “Have some quicker reflexes next time and maybe we can find out.” Draco opens his mouth to curse him, but then Potter throws his wand back at him. “Stop waiting to see what happens. _Act_.”

“I didn’t ask you for help,” Draco snaps, fingers reflexively tightening on his wand as he moves back into position. 

“I didn’t ask for a lot of things.” Potter’s voice is solemn and Draco looks up from the spot on the ugly grey mat beneath Potter’s trainers to Potter’s face. Potter’s regarding him solemnly and if that isn’t bad enough, he can feel McKinnon’s eyes on them and something inside of him _snaps_. He’s so tired of waiting for the other shoe to fall, tired of waiting for people to say the words he knows they're thinking. And fuck Potter for understanding _that_ , for being able to somehow empathise or forgive him. Fuck Potter for once again being better than him. Potter was supposed to keep on hating him like everyone else, otherwise the jealousy and regret Draco feels when he looks into Potter’s fiery eyes makes him burn with shame. 

Somehow, when Draco looks at Potter, it isn't the other boy he hates, but himself. 

Draco can’t imagine what he looks like, not when he feels so consumed with his anger and helplessness, not when he wants to direct it all at Potter. But Potter doesn't look surprised or intimidated instead, the corner of his lip curls up in a smile, and something gnarled and tight in Draco’s chest untwists. Potter has always been a constant, someone he can count on to never take it easy or treat him differently. While the rest of the trainees take one step back every time Draco walks into the room, Potter’s feet always remain planted firmly in place—unmoveable.

If Voldemort couldn't kill Potter, then it’s unlikely Draco can, especially with non-violent disarming charms. All the same, a sort of euphoria washes over Draco as he realises that, for the first time in years, he doesn’t have to hold back—not his magic or his emotions. Potter doesn't like him. Potter is strong. Draco doesn't have to worry about hurting Potter emotionally or physically. Potter looks equally excited by the prospect of the duel, and Draco can’t help but think maybe they are more alike than either of them would like to admit. He’s seen the way everyone but Weasley pats Potter on the back like he’s some sort of god, the way all of them, even the Minister of Magic, look at him with awe. 

They’re both so desperate to not be treated differently that they're excited to try to knock each other on their arses, and maybe it should be ridiculous but fuck, does it feel right.

“ _Flipendo_!” Draco shouts, an inappropriate bubble of laughter erupting from his mouth when Potter is knocked ten feet backwards to land hard on his arse.

“Oh, it’s fucking on!” Potter says. Instead of looking upset at being disarmed Potter looks excited, and something flares to life within Draco.

“I can handle anything you’ve got, Potter.”

Draco almost regrets his words when Potter wordlessly cast something that sends Draco flipping in the air and crash landing on his stomach. Merlin, he should not have had a second crumpet this morning. He doesn’t have long to dwell on his breakfast though, because Potter is on his feet moving towards him and something shifts in Draco, pure adrenaline and instinct taking over, and it is as if they are the only two people in the room as they cast spells back and forth. He cannot even imagine what they look like, both laughing like mad men every time they get knocked over or disarmed. Draco has never felt so happy to be treated like everyone else, to know someone isn’t afraid of him, but rather welcomes the challenge he presents. In this moment, he and Potter are equals, and Draco feels drunk on the power that floods his veins at that knowledge.

Time becomes irrelevant as they continue the dance like duel. After the first few spells they each begin to anticipate one another better, more prepared for the way the spells will come. Draco’s experience Potter-watching is suddenly transformed from a _“peculiar habit you will outgrow, my son”_ into a valuable asset. Draco is surprised to realise he can read Potter’s body language—the way Potter’s tongue darts out before he casts a spell, the way he leans back on his heels before he plans to duck. 

Draco has no idea how long they continue, just knows his body is heavy with fatigue but his heart is light. He feels free in a way he’d not thought possible, deflecting a strong _Reducto_ and preparing to cast it back at Potter when suddenly both of their wands go flying from their hands and the haze of battle is lifted. Draco pants, sweat dripping down his neck and his hair plastered to his forehead. Potter isn’t much better, his t-shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked chest and his hair an absolute disaster as he places his hands on his knees and attempts to catch his breath.

“I think that will be enough for today, gentlemen.” McKinnon’s voice wavers somewhere between annoyed and amused, and it takes Draco a moment to understand why: when he’s finally able to drag his eyes away from Potter, it's to find the other trainees crowded in the corner, their backs against the wall and their mouths hanging open. 

“Well fuck,” Draco mutters, managing to get Potter’s attention. 

Potter looks up, eyes wide. There’s a stack of extra mats in the opposite corner that one of them—he’s not even sure which one of them—managed to blow up. The other wall has a rather large hole near the ceiling, and the spare chairs that were previously lined up near the door are now sprinkled around the room, most of them broken. In short, he and Potter have trashed the training room. 

McKinnon clears his throat loudly, and Draco stands taller, straight. “Sorry, sir,” he lies, unable to muster any actual regret for his actions.

Potter copies him, standing up and running his hand through his hair before dropping it uselessly at his side. “Err, sorry about that, sir. We might’ve got a little carried away.”

McKinnon looks like he’s trying to contain a smile, and Draco isn't sure if that is better or worse than him yelling. He’s not sure he’s ever heard of McKinnon smiling at anyone. “I was going to run a few more of these duels to gauge compatibility before assignments go out next month, but I think I’ve seen all I need to see.”

“Sir?” Draco asks, fearing the worst. Fuck, is he being kicked out after less than three weeks in the program? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

McKinnon smiles again, and Draco has never seen anything less friendly-looking. He manages to make a smile look like a weapon. “Potter, Malfoy, you two will be paired up indefinitely. Take a step forward and shake hands, boys. You’re going to be spending a lot of time together over the next two years, what with you now being partners.”

“Partners?” Potter blurts, his eyes immediately darting towards Weasley, who looks equally confused. It’s clear Potter thought he’d be paired with him. Draco can’t blame him, it’s what he would’ve expected too. The first thing they’d been told—in between being presented with their two-hundred-page Auror regulation handbook and their training uniform—was that their partner would be someone they could trust with their life and that the next few weeks would be spent gauging who they were most compatible to work with.

“You heard me, partners. Whatever issues you two might have, you better work them out fast.”

“But sir, we nearly destroyed the training room!” Draco says, unable to stop himself. In retrospect, reminding him of that was probably unwise. 

McKinnon doesn’t answer at first, striding across the room to stand beside them. He appraises them each slowly before handing their wands back. “You two are both talented. You’re smart, strong, and have an innate understanding of the connection between body and magic.” Draco begins to smile, which proves to be a mistake. McKinnon fixes his eyes on him before speaking again. “You’re also both complete pains in my arse. Neither one of you are good at accepting authority, you spend more time watching each other than you do listening to my lectures, and you’re so wrapped up in besting each other you lose track of the well-being and safety of your fellow trainees. No one else will be able to handle either one of you, and you’re lucky I’m letting either of you stay in my program.”

“Sorry, sir,” they answer at the same time. Potter looks how Draco feels—exhausted and embarrassed. 

“You two will learn to work together if it kills you, do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” they answer, voices echoing each other.

McKinnon nods, clearly done with them both as he moves to address the rest of the trainees. Draco turns to look at Potter, and to his surprise Potter is holding out his hand.

“He’s not watching us anymore,” Draco says, unable to articulate the way it feels to see Potter’s hand outstretched, waiting for his. Draco’s mind flashes back to being eleven years old and being refused. Not that Potter hadn't had every reason to do so. In hindsight, Draco isn’t sure he liked himself at eleven very much either.

“It’s not for McKinnon. It’s for us.” Potter’s hand hangs there, waiting. His eyes never leave Draco’s face, whether in defiance or bravery Draco can’t be sure.

Draco licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry as he reaches out to shake Potter’s hand. Potter’s grip is firm, his hand clammy, and the tips of his fingers rough and calloused. If Draco had thought it would feel magical, he would’ve been mistaken. It’s a perfectly ordinary, if not sweaty, handshake. It doesn’t change everything. It doesn’t make their past disappear, or suddenly make them friends.

But it feels like the start of something; it feels a like a _second chance._

And Draco, well, Draco is ready for that.

****

***~*~***

**3rd October 2002 - 5:47 pm**

“This is completely and utterly useless!” Draco groans, throwing himself onto the sofa. It is with absolutely zero surprise that he finds it to be the most uncomfortable thing he has ever had the displeasure of sitting upon, somehow managing to be both too squashy and too hard. 

Despite the fact that there is plenty of room for both of them on the ugly pea-green sofa, Draco still tries to shove Potter over to the far end with his foot, earning him a dirty look as Potter turns to sit sideways, placing his feet in Draco’s lap apparently determined to try and annoy him further. It’s a game they've played a million times but it somehow seems different.

“I told you it was useless half an hour ago,” Potter answers, twirling his wand between his fingers and ignoring Draco’s attempts to shove his dirty boots out of his lap. Potter had, in fact, said that exact thing precisely twenty-nine minutes ago, after each of them had spent nearly two hours attempting every single spell they knew to try to contact someone or to get out of the safehouse. Despite their authorisation as Aurors to temporarily add any fireplace onto the Floo network, the Floo would not come back on. Worse still, no matter how many times they cast a Patronus, both of their Patronuses merely galloped (or in Draco’s case, flew) around the house, seemingly racing each other before disappearing into nothingness—instead of leaving the house to alert someone that they needed help. They tried to cast a Liberandum Charm, but all that happened was a faint red light sizzled from the end of their wands, bouncing off the ceiling before dissipating. Reducto Curses fired at the wall merely made the walls shimmy and shake before the magic seemed to be absorbed by the house, as if it were actually feeding off the magic. And every time they tried to Disapparate they’d pop back into the same room not half a second later. The fourth time it happened, Potter had ended up in Draco’s lap and they’d mutually agreed that was the last time either of them needed to try _that_ again.

Draco sighs. “Yeah well, it’s not like I was just going to take your word for it.” 

Truth be told, Draco had actually believed Potter when he’d asserted that they were well and truly stuck here until someone found them. It was just that Draco had not been prepared to collapse on the sofa beside Potter, to simply sit there and have to find something to talk about. He is too afraid of what conversation might arise if they stop focussing on trying to get out of here or on how to stay alive. 

“Would you have taken anyone’s word for it?”

Draco mulls it over before answering. “Probably not.” If there were anyone’s word he would take, about their current situation or anything else really, it would be Potter’s, but he doesn’t feel like admitting that, even if he strongly suspects Potter knows it already.

Potter snorts, leaning back and stretching out his long legs. Draco wishes he could resent Potter for his knack for making himself comfortable anywhere, including Draco’s personal space. It had rankled his sensibilities during their first few months as training partners, but now it made Draco uncomfortable for an entirely new set of reasons that Draco had done his best to ignore. Not that his attempt to ignore these _feelings_ had done either one of them a lot of good, if the awkward tension in the air is anything to go by. Draco’s nerves are shot and the last thing he wants is to deal with trying to get out of this bloody safehouse, which appears to be locked up tighter than the Malfoy family vault at Gringotts. Whatever containment spell the house is under is working well, too well. While they are able to do plenty of magic inside the house, nothing, not even Potter’s most powerful Blasting Curse, can manage to make a dent in the wards keeping the magic of the house contained.

“Stubborn bellend,” Potter snorts, swinging his feet from Draco’s lap to the floor. Draco brushes the specks of dirt off his robes and tries to pretend he doesn’t miss the contact, doesn’t miss the comfortable weight of Potter’s legs in his lap.

“Well, what are we going to do about this then?” Draco asks, eyes darting around the room for the umpteenth time, as if he might notice something he hasn’t before. Although that seems unlikely given the fact that this particular safehouse is one of the smaller ones the Ministry owns and contains only a handful of rooms. There is one bedroom—with one fucking bed and Merlin’s beard that is not something Draco is prepared to deal with—a small but adequate bathroom across the corridor, a living room, and one poky kitchen with a dining table in the corner. The entire house would probably fit into Draco’s childhood bedroom, though Potter had not seemed nearly as shocked by its small size.

In fact, Potter hasn’t seem surprised or bothered by anything at all since they’d arrived here, which is unnerving on its own. Draco is used to Potter and his conspiracy theories, used to inane chattering about people’s possible motivations for their strange behaviour and his need to assess possible routes of escape when they go somewhere new. Not that they’ve ever been stuck in a safehouse together, but they’ve been fully fledged Auror partners for just over a year and in that time they’ve been on their fair share of raids and investigations. Besides Draco likes to think he knows Potter pretty well. But this Potter, the one playing with his wand on the sofa as he yawns and stretches out like this is his flat and not a malfunctioning safehouse intent on keeping them here like an overprotective Occamy protecting its eggs—well, this is a Potter that Draco doesn’t know what to do with.

“I’m starving,” Potter says abruptly, rising from the couch. “I swear I could eat just about anything right now.”

“You say that as if you normally have a discerning palate, Potter.”

“Says the man who ate leftover curry on toast last week.”

Draco can’t contain the undignified snort that leaves his mouth. “That’s because I was at your flat, you absolute tosser. You never have any real food. You live on takeaway and toast; it’s not normal.”

“And tea. Don’t forget the tea,” Potter laughs, beginning to undo the buttons of his robe along the right side of his chest. 

“The three T’s of British society—tea, toast, and takeaway,” Draco says. “All staples of any decent British household. Who needs real food when you can exist on nutrient-free food like a teenager.”

Potter ducks his head to hide his smile as he pops out the last button, peeling off his robe to reveal a plain forest green t-shirt and a pair of soft-looking worn jeans with a rather distracting hole above Potter’s right knee. The same jeans Potter was wearing last night. _Last night_. Draco swallows the lump in his throat, the room suddenly lacking oxygen. He absolutely does not want to think about last night. That’s a train of thought he cannot afford to indulge, especially not now, when he needs all of his faculties to help them figure out what the fuck is going on. It’s on the tip of Draco’s tongue to remind Potter that they’re not supposed to take off their Auror-issued uniform for any reason on active missions, when it occurs to him that they’re likely going to be stuck here at the very least through the night. And there’s no way he’s sleeping in his own muck-covered robe. So rather than make himself a hypocrite, Draco unfastens his own buttons as well. At least the motion distracts him from Potter’s choice of clothing.

Draco takes far longer than is necessary to remove his robe, staunchly pretending he can’t feel Potter’s eyes on him the entire time, as if willing Draco to look at him. Draco however does not, though he wants to. He learned long ago that wanting to do something and actually doing it are not things that should always go hand in hand. By the time he’s got his robe completely off, cast a cleaning charm on it, folded it, and stowed it away on the top shelf of the bookcase in the corner, Potter is already gone. Draco shakes his head, annoyed at himself for his spike of disappointment as he picks Potter’s haphazardly discarded robe up off the back of the sofa. He gives it the same treatment before putting it beside his own.

He hears Potter in the next room, probably poking around the kitchen for something to eat, if the loud noises are any indication. When they’d searched the house earlier it’d been to look for a way out, or a way to contact someone, not to assess their supplies. Food had been the absolute last thing on Draco’s mind when they’d tried and failed to blast a hole through the kitchen window. All they’d succeeded in doing was making the window, previously enchanted with a lovely country sunset, darken, the sky taken over with angry bolts of lightning as the rain began to crash down. Draco supposed it was karma—the house is as unhappy they wanted to leave as they were unhappy at having to stay.

Draco crosses the room quickly, pushing the kitchen door open. From his vantage point Draco’s got a spectacular view of Potter’s arse and the strip of tan skin where his t-shirt has rucked up enough to show off the elegant swirls of the tattoo on his back. Draco’s seen it in full exactly three times, usually by accident when they’ve had a contamination issue at work, like the potions case during which they were required to shower at the Ministry and Potter had been slow to grab his towel on his way out of the shower. Potter’s never talked about it and Draco’s never asked, but every time he’s caught sight of the intricate design he’s felt his sense of self-preservation crumbling, desperate to touch it, to ask about it—to understand all the small parts of Potter that he keeps hidden. He takes a moment to examine what he can see, the small wings outstretched over a field of lilies. There’s more he can’t see, bits he’s only caught glimpses of—a dog, antlers, and something that looks like the night sky, though if it is a constellation it’s one Draco’s never seen.

“Taking up a position as a house-elf, Potter?” Draco finally asks, realising that the longer he stands here staring at Potter’s tattoo, the higher the likelihood of him doing something from which there will be no return.

Potter jumps, banging his head on the inside of the cupboard. “Fuck—ouch,” Potter curses, shuffling backwards until he’s got enough room to pull his head out. He’s got a pathetic frown on his face as he rubs the back of his head, sitting on his heels and glaring at Draco.

“Always knew you had a soft spot there. You might want to get that looked at when we get out of here. Wouldn’t want you to sustain any permanent damage.”

“I’ll put that on my to-do list right after the number one thing on my list—getting a new partner.”

Draco knows Potter is teasing him—they’ve said nearly the same thing to each other at least once a week since they were officially made partners after their promotion to full Aurors nearly a year ago—but for some reason this time it stings in a way it never has before. Somehow this time the possibility of losing Potter as his partner feels too close for comfort.

“Well, what did you manage to find for supper? Please tell me there’s food here.” Draco’s not even sure if half past ten still counts as supper, but he’s also not sure he cares.

Potter gives him a wry smile, rising up off the floor as he gestures at the counter. “Depends on your definition of food. I mean, it’s all edible at least. Or, well, I think so. Some of it doesn't seem to have expiry dates, and to be honest there are a few things in here I’ve never eaten. And those tinned sardines look pretty dodgy.”

Draco takes the last few steps that are separating them until he’s standing directly beside Potter. He sucks in a heavy breath, blowing it out slowly between his clenched teeth as he leans over to examine the array of tins and jars laid out before him, if only to distract him from the warmth radiating from Potter’s bare arm when it brushes against his own.

Draco’s eyes roam over the meagre supplies Potter has pulled from the cupboards. There’s a dented tin of tomatoes, some tinned coconut milk, a few smashed bags of Walkers crisps, several glass jars of what Draco is pretty sure are dried rice and beans, a jar of jam, and several unidentified bottles near the stove.

“We’re going to starve,” Draco proclaims, picking up one of the pot noodles closest to him and frowning when he reads the flavour and discovers it’s got mushrooms in it. The only thing that could possibly be more revolting than the idea of eating pot noodles would be pot noodles with bits of mushrooms in it. Draco’s seen pot noodles enough in Potter’s flat over the last few years to be familiar with them, of course, but never once in all that time has Draco ever been hungry enough to eat them—even when Potter had nothing else to eat, which was most days.

“Here, I think this one might be more to your taste,” Potter tells him, plucking the chicken and mushroom flavoured one out of his hands and replacing it with the other one— _Bombay Bad Boy_ is written across the front of the all-black package—and Draco frowns.

“Ha ha, Potter, very funny. I'm not eating this.”

Draco expects Potter to make a joke about the flavour or the packaging suiting him but instead he just shrugs, moving to the kettle and filling it with a softly spoken _Aguamenti_ before tapping it twice and murmuring a spell to himself. The kettle roars to a boil almost immediately and Draco watches Potter peel back the foil lid on his own pot noodle, remove the sachet of sauce, and pour in the boiling water before patting the lid back down. He looks around, grabbing a plate—it’s cleanliness questionable—out of the cupboard before putting it on the top.

“Keeps the heat in,” Potter says, not looking at him, as if he could sense Draco’s curiosity. He holds the sachet in his right hand, shaking it back and forth over his other hand in a sort of nervous tick that has Draco’s nerves on edge in the three minutes it takes Potter’s noodles to finish cooking, or reconstituting or whatever the fuck it is noodles do. Draco’s nerves are rankled further as Potter rips open the sachet, pouring it into the container before stirring it with a spoon he’d pulled out of a drawer only moments before—thankfully, he’d cast a cleaning charm on it first. 

Potter reaches past him and grabs one of the three bags of crisps, clearly not bothered by what kind he gets, before he drops into one of the kitchen chairs and begins to eat. Potter slurps up a bite of soup, broth staining his lips as he rips open the black packet of crisps and pops one in his mouth, which is still full of soup.

“That looks revolting.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Potter says, and to Draco’s horror he drops several of the crisps into his broth, poking them with his spoon before scooping a huge bite into his mouth. Draco isn’t sure if he’s more annoyed Potter is eating while he isn’t, or that he is eating this pathetic excuse of a meal without complaint. Probably both. 

With a heavy sigh, Draco rips his own lid back, pulling out the sachet and filling the container with water. He turns around to make sure Potter isn’t watching him before grabbing the plate and covering his pot noodle. He’s not sure if Potter is having him on or if the plate is actually necessary, but Draco is too hungry to care and too stubborn to ask. The next few minutes tick by painfully slow as Draco has nothing to focus on but the crinkle of Potter’s crisp bag, the loud crunch every time he puts one in his mouth, and the quiet, but still annoying slurp of soup.

Draco doesn’t even look at his own flavour sachet or wonder why his soup has two of them, just dumps them both in, stirring it up and grabbing the last two packets of crisps before dropping into the seat opposite Potter. He looks the crisps over, internally debating whether Worcester or beef-and-onion would be less revolting, when Potter grabs the purple one out of his hands.

“You’ll hate that one, trust me,” Potter says with a wink, ripping it open and wasting absolutely no time in popping a crisp into his own mouth.

Draco snorts. “Thank you so much for sacrificing yourself on my behalf. Your noble and selfless ways never cease to amaze me.”

Potter leans back in his chair, eyes on Draco for the first time since he started eating. “It’s what I do. Save the world. Save my partner. Eat dodgy crisps so no one else has to.” 

Potter looks particularly pleased with himself and Draco has half a mind to remind Potter that he doesn’t need saving. The words are on the tip of his tongue but he takes a bite of his noodles and begins to cough, because his tongue is on fire. The only thing that stops him from spitting it on the table is the knowledge that Potter is watching him. 

“Is it a little too hot for you to handle?” Potter, the absolutely fucker, looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

Draco’s mouth turns down in a frown for what feels like the millionth time that day as he lifts up his pot noodles to read the smaller words beneath “Bombay Bad Boy”— _an incredibly hot curry flavour sauce with vegetables and a little sachet of hot fire chilli sauce_. Well, fuck. Draco hates spicy food, always has. He’d been so preoccupied with the ridiculous name he hadn't even paid attention to the flavour or the evil-looking little chili peppers on the front. He’d just assumed two sachets of sauce meant twice as flavourful, not twice as likely to burn his taste buds off. He almost thinks mushrooms would’ve been preferable to this Muggle death broth. 

Potter _Accios_ two water glasses, casting a quick cleaning charm on them before murmuring _Aguamenti_. Draco feels his hand reaching out in anticipation before the glass is even half full, watching the stream of water erupt from the end of Potter’s wand. 

Potter slides it across the table and Draco accepts it gratefully, chugging down the entire glass. Draco would normally be annoyed that the water always somehow tastes better when Potter conjures it, but he can't muster the energy to be indignant about it when he's the one benefiting from Potter’s skill with the charm. 

“I can handle anything,” Draco finally says, once the burning sensation on his tongue has stopped. Despite his assertion, he eyes the pot noodles warily and instead reaches for his pathetic bag of mostly crushed crisps. It takes him a minute to realise Potter has swapped pot noodles with him. He looks down into the half empty container, eyeing the unsavoury-looking bits of mushroom in it and feels grateful despite his revulsion. At least the mushrooms won’t set his mouth aflame.

Potter hates spicy food almost as much as Draco, but rather than complain he simply refills both their waters before choking down the too-spicy broth, his eyes watering. Draco almost wishes Potter wasn't so good at that, at holding things back, at making anything work, but then he thinks back to the last time Potter hadn't kept things in. The memory manages to be even more stomach-churning than his first mouthful of Potter’s chicken and mushroom noodles. 

Perhaps, he thinks, nearly choking on the slimy fungi, it's karma.

****

***~*~***

**5th February 2000**

The music is loud, but as not as loud as the voices of the people around him, the pub packed to the brim with witches and wizards—the room buzzing with the vibrations of other people's drunken happiness—while Draco scoots farther into the recesses of the booth, hoping to fade into the background. It’s easy enough in training to go unnoticed. It was surprisingly easy to turn a lifetime's practice at getting noticed into the ability of getting overlooked. Most of the other trainees and senior Aurors still look at him with apprehension— _distrust_ —all these months later. It’s only Potter who looks at him as if Draco is, perhaps not his equal, but at least someone he is not afraid of. Draco’s seen the way the others at the Ministry catalogue the exits when he is close, the way their hands twitch unconsciously towards their wands. Draco is not someone people let their guards down around. He knows he hasn’t quite earned anyone’s trust yet, but it stings all the same to see the flicker of doubt in people’s eyes.

Draco’s not sure Potter is afraid of anything. If he is, he hides it well. Draco’s watched Potter, been up close and personal the last six months. He’s watched Potter take on every challenge they’ve been thrown with ease. Potter approaches every training exercise, no matter how dangerous or daunting, not as man with a death wish, but as a man with nothing to fear. Draco knows, at the very least, Potter isn’t afraid of him, and that is surprisingly grounding in a world where everything Draco was is wrong, and everything he _wants_ to be still feels so far out of reach. He’s not sure what Potter thinks when he looks at him, but he knows what he thinks when he looks at Potter, and it’s dangerous.

“Malfoy, what are you doing back here alone?” Potter asks. He’s got a drink in hand and a smile on his face. His usual trainee attire has been replaced with a pair of jeans that look softer than the fur of a newborn kneazle and a plain white cotton t-shirt. While everyone else looks like they had dressed in their Saturday best, Potter looks like he’s thrown on the first thing he found in his wardrobe. It’s a bit wrinkled and simple, and Draco would hate him for it if he weren’t so busy wondering what he’s supposed to do with the lazy erection starting to form in his trousers and the realisation that yes, he definitely has a crush on Potter. 

Draco had thought being partnered for training with Potter would be the worst thing to happen to him—two years training with someone he hated as much as they hated him. The reality was far worse. Potter didn’t hate him, not anymore, and Merlin’s fucking beard, Draco certainly didn’t hate Potter. Well, he hated him a little bit at that moment, hated him for looking so comfortable with himself while Draco is wondering if he can transfigure into an extra chair or perhaps a decorative vase to avoid being noticed. Draco is used to the judgmental looks at work, used to feeling as if he’s always be an outsider, but he isn’t sure he is up to that right now.

“What are you doing?” Draco asks as Potter drops onto the bench beside him, scooting far closer than is necessary, considering they’re the only two people sitting down.

“Sitting down. Obviously. Either you’re really pissed or not nearly pissed enough.” Potter laughs, nudging Draco with his elbow in a conspiratorial way. Draco’s entire arm burns from the contact. Potter’s touched him before—a hand to help him up when he’s flat on his arse in the training room, or Potter accepting Draco’s hand when Draco’s wiped the floor with _him_. It’s just—that’s always been at the Ministry, it’s always been very clearly a part of training. This—seeing Potter outside of work, being touched as if they are on friendly terms—this is new. 

Potter leans on his elbows, running his pointer finger around the rim of his pint glass, the condensation collecting on the tip as his eyes travel across the crowded room towards the bar. Draco follows his gaze to see Weasley with the rest of their group. Goldstein and Finnigan are laughing while Patil shakes her head, watching them with amusement. Potter catches Weasley’s eye and in the span of five seconds they somehow manage to have an entire silent conversation with a single hand wave and nod of the head. Draco can’t imagine ever knowing someone that well.

“They’re getting the next round. Then Ron and the rest of them will come over and join us here. How long have you been hiding in the back of the pub, anyway? We’ve been here an hour drinking already. We all thought you just decided not to show.”

Draco clears his throat, wishing he had something stronger than a beer. He has absolutely no intention of telling any of them that he’s been here longer than any of them, that he watched them all arrive together, as a group, and promptly lost his nerve and relegated himself to the shadows for the next hour as he watched them celebrate without him. He’d been sure his absence hadn’t even been noticed. Except apparently it had.

“I only got here a few minutes ago,” he lies.

Potter leans back against the ugly green material of the booth, shifting in his seat so that his legs are spread wide beneath the table, and his knee bumps into Draco’s. The arm he casually throws over the back of the booth is dangerously close to Draco, close enough that Draco’s right shoulder burns, as if Potter’s hand is actually touching him and not merely hovering close enough to drive Draco completely mental.

“Sure you did,” Potter says.

“I did!” Draco insists a bit too loudly, slamming his pint glass onto the table as he speaks and spilling some of his beer.

“I said sure,” Potter says again in that maddeningly calm tone of voice he sometimes uses, the confident lilt of his voice as arousing as it is annoying. Draco’s heard him use it when he’s arguing with the other trainees, or even McKinnon, over protocol and tactical maneuvers. It’s the voice he uses when he thinks the other person is full of shit. Draco’s not sure if he’s more horrified Potter is using that tone of voice on _him_ , or that he recognises that tone of voice at all. Probably the latter. 

A fair few choice words are on the tip of Draco’s tongue, but all of them die with the approach of the other trainees, the crowd in the room parting easily as they make their way towards him and Potter. They don’t need to be in their Auror uniforms to be recognised. Even if they aren’t technically Aurors yet, the pub is close enough to the Ministry that most of the people who come here work there, which means everyone knows who they are. Their class is the biggest the Ministry has accepted in well over a decade, but it’s still small.

“Hello,” Patil says, taking the seat farthest from Draco. Finnegan and Goldstein elbow each other in their haste to sit next to Patil, who rolls her eyes but looks amused, sipping her drink as Goldstein claims the spot. Finnigan looks put out, but like in all things, he plasters a smile on his face and drops into the seat directly across from Draco.

“Malfoy,” he says with a polite nod, one hand dropping not so subtly to his pocket as the other wraps around his pint.

Only Weasley remains standing, his eyes flickering back and forth between Potter and Draco as if analysing the situation, and Draco can practically see the wheels in his brain turning, though over what he doesn’t have a damn clue. That was something else Draco had been surprised to learn not long into their training—Weasley is really bloody smart. Draco never would’ve guessed from his apathy back at Hogwarts or the way he never raised his hand in lectures, but once they’d started their field training exercises, Draco had been shocked to realise that Weasley has a mind for moving people around in battle scenarios and a keen ability to recognise weaknesses and strengths in others. Sometimes he finds Weasley a bit scary, the way he’s gone from never shutting his mouth to rarely opening it. His silence makes Draco wonder what the hell it is he’s thinking, and what it is he thinks he sees. Granted, he never stops talking when it's just him and Potter, but around everyone else he’s calculated and thoughtful in a way Draco finds both admirable and unnerving. Not that he’d ever fucking admit it out loud.

Weasley’s eyes linger on Potter’s as they have what appears to be another silent conversation. Weasley’s jaw tightens but Potter shakes his head, sipping his beer and nodding towards the empty spot beside him in the booth. 

“We’re all so happy you made it tonight, Malfoy,” Ron says in an unnaturally friendly tone.

Draco almost chokes on his beer. Weasley looks like he’d like to choke on his as well. 

“Yes, we are _all_ glad,” Potter echoes, as if daring anyone to disagree. Draco wants to be pissed off on principle that Potter’s opinion holds so much weight with everyone else, but he can’t be arsed. Even if no one else is glad he came, Potter is. “We made it six months. We get our junior Auror robes Monday. We deserve to celebrate.”

“Fuck yes we do!” Finnigan agrees with a smile as Weasley, Goldstein, and Patil raise their beers in cheers. It shouldn’t be so easy to feel a part of the group, but Draco finds his hand in the air, the cheers falling from his lips as Goldstein gives him a nod. They had worked hard, all of them, and while he hasn’t quite earned anyone's trust yet, he thinks perhaps he’s on the right track. 

“Give me a drink of your beer,” Harry unexpectedly says, reaching for Draco’s drink before he can answer. Draco only has time to notice Harry’s own glass is empty before he’s pulling his own out of reach.

“Get your own, lazy arse.”

“Fuck you, stingy wanker.” Potter tries to pout and it’s somehow the most pathetic thing Draco has ever seen _and_ slightly adorable, which is really just too much for Draco’s half-smashed brain to deal with. 

Potter is leaning towards Draco, just an inch or two closer than he was before, but it's enough that his jean-clad thigh presses against Draco’s more firmly. Draco can see the tender pink flesh of Potter’s mouth as he sticks his bottom lip out in an exaggerated fashion, his eyebrows furrowed together in mock disappointment.

“Fine, fucking pain in the arse,” Draco mutters. Potter’s pout transforms into a genuine smile and Draco finds himself unable to hold back his laughter at the ridiculousness of the scenario. He slides his half-full beer towards Potter if only to get him to move back enough so Draco can adjust himself without notice and get two seconds respite from Potter focussing his every ounce of attention on Draco.

Seamus whistles at the same time that Goldstein, Weasley, and Patil begin to laugh and Draco’s shoulders tense, hands clenching at his sides beneath the table. For a moment he’d let himself forget that there is anyone else here and the familiar prickle of ostracism assaults him. Except no one is looking at him, they’re all looking at Potter, rolling their eyes as their laughter echoes through Draco’s mind and quite suddenly realises they’re not laughing at him but _with_ him.

“Is that how you defeated Voldemort, mate? Showed him the bottom lip and he rolled over and snuffed it?” Ron’s tone is teasing but everyone at the table goes silent all the same. No one ever mentions the war, at least not near Potter. He supposes Weasley and Potter have probably talked about it, but not in front of any of _them_.

Potter takes so long to answer that Draco is sure you could cut the tension with a knife. Potter’s eyes stay fixed on Weasley, who looks completely unruffled as Potter lifts Draco’s beer to his mouth and drains it all in one go, dropping it to the table with a loud thud. 

“Fuck you,” Potter finally says, flipping Weasley off. His voice is low and even, and there’s a look in his eyes Draco’s not used to. 

Before anyone has a chance to figure out what’s going on, Potter scoots to the left side of the booth and shoves Weasley onto the dingy floor. 

“Oi, you'll fucking pay for that!” Weasley hollers, reaching his ridiculously long arm out to grab hold of Potter’s ankle and pull _hard_. Weasley must be stronger than he looks, that or the advantage of an unexpected counter attack, because Potter slides off the bench, collapsing onto the floor in an undignified heap beside Weasley. 

Potter groans, rubbing his arse and frowning at Weasley, who reaches out to wrap his arm around Potter’s waist and pull him down, though not without a fight, and to Draco’s complete surprise they begin to _wrestle_ —a tangle of arms and legs fighting for dominance—and all Draco can do is watch in bewilderment, unsure if one of them should break this up. 

Several of the chairs at the nearest table fall to the floor in a clatter as they roll to the side and while it earns them several meaningful looks from the bartender, no one approaches them. Weasley and Potter seem completely unaware of the ruckus they're causing as Potter lets out a whoop and rolls them over, pinning Ron’s hands above his head. Not to be defeated, Ron uses his height to his advantage by kicking his legs up before tipping them both to the side until their positions are reversed and Weasley has Potter pinned to the floor. 

For a tense moment no one moves and then Weasley is rolling off Potter to drop onto the floor beside him on his back as he laughs. Potter follows suit, his laughter echoing over the mindless chatter like a bell.

“Fucking weirdos are going to get us kicked out,” Goldstein grumbles loudly, though he doesn’t look the least bit put out. 

“Boys,” Patil sighs, winking at Draco as she tosses her long plaited hair over her shoulder. “Always trying to one-up each other. Your displays of masculinity are endearing but could you two please get your arses up here.”

Potter looks at Weasley before jumping up and sliding into the booth. Weasley just barks out another laugh. “Wasn’t gonna steal your seat, mate.”

Potter shrugs, reaching for his glass and then noticing it’s empty, eyes immediately drawn to Seamus. “Your turn, Seamus. Next round is on you.”

Seamus frowns. “Oi, why me?”

Potter shrugs, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “Because.”

“That’s not a good fucking reason,” Seamus snorts, but despite his words he pushes his chair out and slowly makes his way across the crowded bar, weaving in and out of people.

Ten minutes later Seamus is back with a round of beers and shots of firewhiskey and just like that the lingering tension seems to fade away. If the others are still uncomfortable with Draco being there to celebrate the closing of their first leg of the training program, well, they no longer show it. 

As the empty glasses begin to accumulate on the table, the walls between them seem to fall. Seamus begins to tease Draco, Patil begins to tease them all, and Goldstein, much like usual, laughs through it all. Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe they’re all just finally acting like the teenagers none of them ever got the chance to be. Whatever it is, Draco likes it, likes the idea of the camaraderie building between them; he likes feeling a part of something again.

“Malfoy, are you listening?” Patil asks, snapping her fingers in his direction. “It’s your turn.”

“My turn? My turn for what?” he asks, wondering why everyone is looking at him.

Potter snorts. “You that pissed?”

Draco straightens his shoulders. He’s not nearly as tipsy as the rest of them, but he’s certainly not about to tell them he’d lost track of the conversation daydreaming about making friends and being part of a team that might eventually trust him, so he shrugs.

“We’re playing never have I ever,” Weasley supplies. “And _you_ are first.”

“Why the fuck am I first?” Draco asks, glancing around at the faces watching him intently, suddenly unnerved. He’s played this game before at Hogwarts, but it’d always been a way to learn someone else’s secrets, a way to learn things about other people that might one day be used for personal gain. It’d never been about bonding. It’d never been for _fun_. At least he thinks this is supposed to be fun.

“Scared, Malfoy?” Potter asks, one eyebrow raised and a look of such utter self-confidence on his face Draco’s not sure if he wants to kiss Potter or punch him. Possibly both.

“You fucking wish, Potter.” Potter’s face breaks out into a smile, something genuine and free from bravado—a smile he’s seen Potter give Weasley or Granger hundreds of times, a smile that makes Draco’s stomach twist uncomfortably with feelings he does not want, a smile that is as familiar as it is unfamiliar because it’s never once been directed at him, not until now—as he nudges Draco’s knee beneath the table almost playfully. It’s the smallest of touches, over so fast Draco could almost believe it was an accident. Except nothing Potter does is accidental and Draco’s leg _burns_ with the memory as he speaks. “Never have I ever hated myself.”

“Fucking hell, Malfoy,” Seamus groans, but he’s the first to take a drink. Draco hides his surprise, wondering how much Seamus hides behind a front of jokes and laughter. Not that he’d really spoken to Finnigan much in the last few months. Patil and Goldstein follow Finnigan’s lead, averting their eyes from Draco as they each take a drink. 

Draco is the next to lift his glass, doing his best to pretend he is not watching Weasley or Potter out of the corner of his eye as the beer fills his mouth. Weasley leans over to whisper something to Potter that none of them can hear, something which makes Potter loosen his hold on his pint glass and his shoulders relax, before Ron leans back and takes a small drink of his own beer. 

Potter keeps his eyes on the tabletop as he lifts his up drink, but to Draco’s surprise it’s not a small sip he takes like everyone else, rather he closes his eyes and chugs until his entire pint glass is empty. The sound it makes as it slams back onto the table is loud—a hollow echo reverberating in Draco’s mind—and Draco knows it’s a sound he will never forget.

“Never have I ever had a crush on McKinnon,” Goldstein blurts out, before taking another drink. The resounding laughter makes Draco feel warm for reasons entirely unrelated to his alcohol consumption as Patil shrugs her shoulders and drinks.

“Never have I ever had sex at Hogwarts,” Finnigan says cheerily. Weasley is the first to take a drink, followed by Finnigan and Patil and it’s hard to tell which one of them looks more smug about it. 

“Do blow jobs count?” Goldstein asks, looking pensive.

“Mate, it’s sex, of course it counts,” Finnigan tells him loud enough everyone at the table closest turns to watch them. Finnigan merely grants them a smile and the middle finger before slapping Goldstein on the back as he takes a large swig of beer, looking far happier than he had just a minute ago.

It takes Draco a moment to realise he and Potter are the only ones who didn’t drink this round, and Draco is hard pressed to understand exactly why he’s glad Potter didn’t drink too.

“Never have I ever—” Weasley starts, but to everyone’s shock it’s Potter who finishes.

“—been bisexual,” Potter says in a rush. Potter looks nervous, unsure of himself, and Draco can’t recall the last time he’d seen Potter without his usual air of confidence. Potter had shown up that first day of Auror training looking like a different person than the Potter Draco remembered from the war trials—these days Potter usually looks healthy, happy, self-assured. Now though, now Potter looks a lot more like the messy-haired eleven-year-old Draco recalls walking across the Great Hall towards the Sorting Hat than a nineteen-year-old war hero. 

“Never have I ever been bisexual,” Potter says again, with a bit more conviction in his voice as he lifts his eyes definitively, taking a big chug of beer. The silence is palpable as everyone, Draco included, stares at Potter. Well, everyone except Weasley, who’s smiling like a drunken loon. Draco supposes Weasley already knew, Granger too if he had to guess. Those three probably didn’t take a piss without telling each other. Draco wishes he could find that pathetic, but all it does is make him feel hollow, the jealousy burning in the pit his stomach.

It’s for Draco to make sense of his feelings, to understand why it feels like something massive has shifted. As much as Draco might find Potter fit, it’s not like he’s delusional. It shouldn’t matter if Potter likes girls and boys, because it’s not like he’d ever like Draco. At least not like that.

“Now you really are the Wizarding World’s most eligible bachelor, mate,” Finnigan says. “Bit unfair to the rest of us to make your dating pool so large though. How are we meant to compete?” he teases with a wink.

“Well, it's not like everyone didn’t already fancy Harry. Besides, just because they fancy him doesn’t mean he fancies them, Seamus.” Patil smiles at Potter as Weasley throws his arm around him in an exuberant half hug, whispering something that makes the worry lines on Potter’s face transform into something much closer to a smile.

“Good on you, Harry,” Goldstein says with a nod, lifting his beer.

“To Harry!” Weasley agrees, “the Bi who lived!"

Potter snorts, ducking his head in embarrassment as everyone, Draco included, takes a drink. Weasley begins to speak again, but Draco isn’t listening. Instead all he can focus on is Potter’s flushed face, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes as he throws his head back and roars his laughter.

Despite Potter’s previous bravado, Draco is smart enough to recognise that Potter was nervous about confessing his sexuality and it makes Draco admire him all the more for sharing that bit of himself with them—with _him_. Draco’s not sure he could do that, not even entirely sure he’s comfortable admitting his sexuality to himself some days. He can’t imagine blurting it out to everyone in a pub. But then again, he’s not Potter, and he never will be. 

Potter turns toward him, his hand impossibly warm as it lies atop Draco’s forearm for a brief moment as Potter tries to get his attention. It occurs to Draco then that while everyone else might not trust Draco yet, Potter must, or he wouldn’t have made that revelation in front of him.

Draco is dimly aware of Potter speaking, but it's as if the words are being spoken to someone else, his words going over Draco’s head and he’s left staring at Potter trying not to smile. 

“Malfoy, what hell is wrong with you?” Potter is waving his hand in front of Draco’s face and leaning close. His breath smells like alcohol and is warm against Draco’s face. Potter is so close, closer than he ever gets to any of the other trainees, except of course Weasley.

“Nothing. I’m fine. Everything is fine,” Draco croaks, wondering if his face is as red as it feels. He definitely shouldn’t have had so much to drink. His inhibitions are too low, it’s too hard to lie to himself when everything he’s wanted—friendship with Potter at the top of the list—feels suddenly not so far out of reach.

Potter narrows his eyes suspiciously, but before he can question Draco, Finnigan slams his hand loudly on the table to get their attention. Potter shrugs, turning his attention towards Finnigan, who launches into an animated story that Draco has trouble following. The conversation shifts after that, their game of _never have I ever_ somehow morphed into a rowdy comparison of who had the most embarrassing trail run last week in the Death Eater simulation run.

But Draco can do nothing but unabashedly watch Potter—his mannerisms easy and his voice soft and laced with amusement as he speaks—and wonder when they became friends without him realising it.

 

****

***~*~***

**4th October 2002 - 6:51 am**

When Draco awakens it's to the sight of the ugly off-white ceiling and pale yellow walls of the safehouse bedroom. It turns out the previous day was not, as he’d hoped, merely a bad dream. He rolls onto his side, sliding his left arm under the lumpy pillow as he rubs his face against the scratchy cotton pillowcase that tickles his beard, blinking blearily as the fake morning light filters through the enchanted bedroom window. He closes his eyes and inhales slowly, listening for any signs of Potter moving around the house, but there are thankfully none.

Draco relaxes, knowing he has at least a bit of time before he has to face Potter. Things had only got more awkward as last night wore on. Potter was unusually quiet over supper. Draco was used to Potter filling silences. After they’d managed to choke down their pathetic meal they’d sat at the table staring at each other, the silence somehow stifling rather than companionable. The tension in the air was palpable, but there was not a chance that Draco was going to be the first one to bring up what happened the night before, not when he was not in the least bit prepared to deal with it. Draco had eventually insisted they should go over the details of the mission, strangely desperate to listen to Potter’s voice. They’d gone over every single directive in painstaking detail over and over until Potter’s eyes had looked close to rolling in the back of his head and Draco had kicked him beneath the table, telling him it was time to sleep.

The problem was, when they both stood from the table and started walking down the corridor at the same time, Draco realised they were both going to the bedroom. The only bedroom. The only bedroom that contained just _one_ bed.

“How do we figure out who gets the bed tonight?” Draco asked, stopping abruptly. 

Potter walked right into Draco, rubbing his face and looking confused about why Draco’d stopped. 

If Draco stopped to think about things logically, it only made sense that Potter would assume they were going to share the bedroom. Draco could hardly fault him for that, they’d certainly been in close quarters plenty of times over the last few years out of job necessity, but there was a huge difference between falling asleep together on his or Potter’s sofa after a long night of casework or sharing a too-small-for-two-grown-men tent for three days during a training exercise. Neither of those, however, were a bed. A bed with sheets, where one might sleep in pyjamas—or worse, boxers. Draco had no idea what Potter slept in and he did not feel remotely prepared to find out. 

“How do we decide who gets the bed?” Draco asked, his body brushing up against Potter’s as he turned around to face him.

“Oh, I thought—” Potter stopped, blowing out a breath and chewing on his bottom lip. His eyes were lined with dark circles and he looked paler than usual. What magic he’d used to get them here, along with the extra reserves he’d used trying to get them out, had clearly taken their toll. Draco had to resist the urge to reach out and touch him. Fuck, they were too close. Far too close. He took a step back, away from Potter, and watched as a shadow of sadness passed across his face, hidden almost immediately by a rather fake yawn. Draco couldn’t do this, not right now, not with Potter looking as vulnerable as Draco felt. “You can have the bedroom. It’s fine. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“Thanks,” Draco mumbled, watching Potter walk down the corridor back towards the living room and wondering why he felt as disappointed as he did relieved.

Draco could only hope a solid night’s sleep might make things seem less disconcerting. 

Unfortunately, the next morning Draco awakens less tired but just as twisted up inside. He rolls onto his back, wondering if Potter is awake yet, when he hears a loud thud followed by several choice expletives. Running purely on instinct, Draco grab his wand and hops out of bed, slamming the door open and running down the small corridor to the living room. His heart skips a beat at the sight of the empty sofa, but his fear is replaced almost immediately by amusement as he takes sight of Potter tangled up in a blanket on the floor. 

“Lose a duel with the sofa?” Draco asks, crossing his arms and lifting an eyebrow, unable to disguise his mirth. That, and it’s a lot easier to focus on his amusement rather than focusing on the fact that Potter apparently sleeps without a shirt.

“Fuck you,” Potter grumbles, kicking at the blanket like an angry crup, groaning loudly when all that does is make the tangle worse.

“Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, didn't he?”

Potter turns his eyes on Draco, green eyes blazing with annoyance. A weaker man would pale under the weight of that stare—he's seen it enough times during interrogations the last few months to know that—but Draco doesn't balk. 

“I didn't get to sleep on a bed; I slept on that ruddy sofa, didn't I?”

Potter makes another huff of annoyance, roughly shoving the blanket down and climbing to his feet. Draco swallows down the lump in his throat as he does his best not to stare at the expanse of tan skin on display. Not that he hasn’t seen Potter without a shirt on before, but it’s never been quite like _this_. Potter doesn’t seem aware of Draco’s attention as he grabs his glasses off the edge of the sofa and shoves them on his face before yawning, his entire body arching back in a languid stretch. Potter’s left hand goes straight to his stomach, his fingernails scratching along the strip of skin above the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. Draco knows Potter is strong—physically, mentally and magically—but there is something soft about him right now, something almost vulnerable—flushed cheeks and sleep warmed skin, his guard down—and Draco feels as if he’s been hexed, the wave of affection he feels for Potter nearly painful in that moment.

“Food,” Draco blurts out, desperate for a distraction. “I want food.”

Potter looks up as he distractedly rubs his hand up and down his stomach. “S’not much to pick from but I think I saw some packets of instant porridge.”

“Can’t be worse than pot noodles.”

Potter shrugs in what Draco can only assume is supposed to be some sort of agreement, his bare feet peeking out from beneath the hem of his too-long pyjama pants. Potter’s always been shit at transfiguring clothes, and the fact that his pyjama bottoms are at least two sizes too big and falling so low on his hips that the waistband of his boxers shows makes Draco think his morning can’t possible get worse. Of course, then Potter turns on his heels, his bare feet padding on the tile as he walks into the kitchen, and whatever bit of air Draco had in his lungs disappears as he takes in Potter’s tattoo on full display, his boxers and pyjamas so low on his hips that for the first time ever Draco can see the bottom of the lily fields and the way the flowers curl up around the two dimples on his lower back just above his arse, giving Draco all the proof he needs that his day is only going to continue downhill from here.

Potter busies himself filling the kettle, so Draco moves around him, desperate for something to do, moving around tins and jars in search of the porridge. Draco’s never had instant porridge, but he doesn’t think it will be too hard to find, considering there’s hardly any food on the counters anyway.

“Tan.”

“Huh?” Draco asks, turning to look at Potter, who is hovering just a few inches from him. 

“Tan, the packets are tan,” Potter says, voice quiet as he leans over to reach past Draco, his bare chest pressing against Draco’s back for brief seconds as he grabs several packets that are wedged in between a bag of beans and a package of squishy-looking white stuff Draco’s never eaten.

“Thanks,” Draco mumbles, taking the packets Potter dangles in front of him. 

Draco refuses to turn around and look at Potter, listening to him mumble _Ferveret_ as he readies the kettle. Draco busies himself with rummaging through the cupboards until he finds two bowls. Draco silently hands the bowls to Potter, who shakes the packets, ripping them open and dumping two packets into each bowl before pouring in the boiling water. Draco notices two cups of tea beside the bowls and wonders where Potter managed to find tea bags. Harry grabs the now-clean spoons they’d used last night off the counter, plopping one in each bowl.

“Tuck in,” Potter says, handing a bowl to Draco.

“This is not food,” Draco complains, following Potter to the table and staring at the watery gloop sloshing in his bowl as he walks. 

Potter sets his food down before retrieving the tea, setting a mug in front of each of them. Draco sits, picking up his spoon and stirring the porridge, watching in bewilderment as the water absorbs into the oats. It’s still runny, not at all like the thick bowls of homemade porridge he’d eaten as a child, but it looks a modicum less revolting than it had a minute ago. 

Potter doesn’t seem surprised or bothered by the state of his own porridge, already shovelling a hearty spoonful of it into his mouth and following it up with a chug of tea. Not for the first time, Draco wonders if Potter even has any heat receptors in his mouth with the way he usually inhales his tea immediately after brewing it, rather than waiting for it to cool like a normal person.

Finally deciding it can’t possibly be worse than last night’s supper, Draco scoops up a big spoonful of porridge, watching it drip off the sides of his spoon on the way to his mouth. It’s squishy and watery and somehow tastes both sweet and strangely salty and Draco is sure it’s the worst porridge he’s ever had the misfortune of putting into his mouth. The longer it’s in his mouth the worse it seems—slimy, chalky, gooey chunks of oats clinging to his tongue and the roof of his mouth and it is only his pathetically empty stomach begging for food that gets Draco to swallow the substandard mushy excuse for food.

Hoping to wash away the taste, Draco reaches for his tea, blowing on it a few times before hesitantly taking a sip. His heart drops—aside from the horror of the tea being unsweetened, it’s got a flat, watery taste that only comes from tea bags that are both substandard and old. 

“This is fucking vile—fuck this,” Draco says, slamming his mug on the table a bit too hard, hot tea splashing onto his hand.

“Yeah, well, it’s all we’ve got, so stop complaining and eat it.” 

“I’m going to eat it but I will complain all I want. This porridge is one of the saddest excuses for food I’ve ever tasted—and that’s saying something, after the horror of what we had to eat last night. And this tea is abysmal. It’s got no depth and it needs sugar. Who the bloody hell drinks tea without sugar? Perhaps you’re used to eating whatever someone gives you, but I am not. I, unlike you, have some standards.”

Potter looks offended, his shoulders tensing as he drops his spoon back into the bowl. “Yes well, not all of us grew up eating homemade porridge with blackberries a house-elf probably picked fresh while singing odes to the honour of the Malfoy family before serving it to you with a fucking silver spoon.”

Draco bristles, drying his hand on his pyjama bottoms beneath the table, unsure what he’s said to get Potter’s knickers in a twist. “For your information, the spoons were made of solid goblin-crafted gold and it was usually wild blueberries on top with some golden syrup stirred in.”

Potter doesn't laugh at Draco’s purposely exaggerated description but rather grunts out an unintelligible reply, seemingly unwilling to look at Draco as he finishes his breakfast at record speed. He gets up, retreating to the living room without another word. Draco spends much longer poking at his porridge before eventually finishing every bite. By the time he finishes his tea, he almost wishes he’d taken Potter’s approach and drank it down scalding hot, if for no other reason than because he’s feeling masochistic, and at least a burned tongue would give him something to focus on other than the unnatural silence coming from the living room.

Draco slowly gathers up the dirty plates, spelling them clean and putting them back in their respective places. He straightens up the remainder of the food on the counters, organizing the unfamiliar tins and jars by size, then spends an additional twenty minutes going through all the cupboards again to make sure neither he nor Potter missed any other food before drinking two glasses of water. He’s halfway through his third glass of water, the insides of his stomach sloshing around like a lake, before he finally admits to himself there is absolutely nothing left for him to do in the kitchen and he makes his way into the living room. 

Potter’s thankfully got a shirt on now, the same one he was wearing yesterday, though judging by the stiff look of the collar Potter’s cast a vigorous cleaning charm at it. His pyjama bottoms have been returned to their previous denim state, though Draco’s not sure butter-soft jeans are any less distracting than too-big pyjamas.

Potter is curled up in the corner of the sofa, his long legs tucked beneath him as he keeps his eyes on the book in his hands. Draco purposely doesn't try to read the spine, instead he walks over to the bookshelf and pulls down a worn copy of _Auror Academy Adventures_. He moves to sit on the opposite end of the sofa, opening the book to the first chapter. To his surprise it’s fairly entertaining and nearly an hour passes before Potter begins to make noises that sound as if he’s having a fit. Draco attempts to ignore the noises of annoyance Potter makes, perfectly aware that will only increase the noises, since Potter absolutely hates being ignored.

Draco is halfway through the last chapter, distractedly wondering how Barthalomew the Auror is going to rescue his partner and declare his love for her all while thwarting a dark wizard with only thirty-two pages to go, when Potter snaps, slamming his book shut loudly.

“Could you please stop doing that?” Potter growls, voice tight.

Draco folds down the corner of the page he’s reading with meticulous care, quietly closing his book and setting it in his lap before lifting his eyes.

“Doing what exactly?”

“That!” Potter all but shouts, gesturing at Draco. Draco’s hand stills as he realises he’s been stroking his beard, an absent-minded habit he picked up not long after deciding during his second year of Auror training that growing a beard would ensure no one ever mistook him for his father. He started growing it out in an act of defiant rebellion, but he ended up keeping it because he liked it, liked the way it looked and the way it made him feel like his own man. Draco now knows exactly what Potter means, but finds himself pretending he doesn’t just the same. He smiles, lips curling up in the corner as he strokes his fingers down the beard again in exaggerated slowness. 

“Stop fondling your fucking beard, Malfoy!” Potter sounds close to losing his temper, and while Draco should know better than to play with fire, he’s never been able to control himself very well where Potter is involved.

“Why, do you want a turn?” he finds himself saying.

Potter opens and shuts his mouth several times before picking up his book and throwing it at the wall. It makes a dent before falling to the floor with a loud thud.

“Feel better?” Draco asks, unable to remove his hand from his beard, if only to annoy Potter further, twirling the tips of the coarse hair around his finger. Potter groans, throwing his hands up in the air and stalking into the kitchen. Of course, given the size of the house Draco can still see Potter through the doorway and makes sure to let him know.

“I can still see you!” 

“Then shut your fucking eyes!” Potter snaps as he grabs the thing nearest him, which turns out to be a bag of beans, and he turns around to throw it at Draco with quite a bit of force. Luckily, Draco’s reflexes are faster, his wand out and an efficient _Reducto_ cast before he can think of the possible consequence. Which turns out to be the entire living room showered in tiny dried beans.

His only consolation in the entire ridiculous scenario is that Potter looks as frustrated as Draco feels. He groans loudly, pulling on his hair before retreating to the far corner of the kitchen, where he can't see Draco plucking small brown beans out of his beard. 

****

***~*~***

**2nd July 2000**

“What the hell took so long? Did you go all the way to Italy for the pizza?” Potter hollers from the kitchen the second Draco steps out of the Floo into Potter’s living room.

“Calm down, you fucking wanker,” Draco replies, dusting the soot from his trousers as Potter walks through the open doorway moments later. He’s got a beer in each hand, a smile on his face, and unlike Draco, who is still fully dressed and wearing exactly what he had on under his Junior Auror robes before he left the Ministry to get the pizza half an hour ago, Potter is in a pair of loose-fitting grey trackies and a hideous, bright-red Gryffindor t-shirt. 

Potter’s clearly showered, his still-damp hair curling up around his ears, and his skin is flushed an attractive pink hue from the scalding hot showers he knows Potter loves—a bit of info he discovered weeks ago after their clothing was contaminated during a trial raid gone wrong and they were both forced to shower at the Ministry. Draco had nearly forgotten how to breathe that afternoon, watching Potter stand there grumbling as he peeled off his robes and removed his t-shirt and jeans, all of it covered in a thick purple muck that smelled as revolting as it felt. Potter’d dropped all of his clothing, dingy trainers and plain white socks included, into a pile on the floor. None of the Aurors used this place unless they _had_ to, because honestly who wanted to take a shower while on display? They weren’t at Hogwarts anymore, and communal showers were about the stupidest thing Draco could imagine. It made no sense why they didn’t have separate stalls, though Draco had long ago given up making sense of Ministry decision-making. 

He’d thought that seeing Potter’s bare stomach and strong thighs once he’d fully disrobed had been bad enough. Draco had averted his eyes and dutifully not looked at Potter’s cock, but then Potter had walked across the room towards the back wall—and really Draco was human after all. It wasn’t his fault that Potter’s arse just happened to be on full display from his current position. Draco undressed slowly, very slowly, fingers shaking as he undid the buttons on his robe and tried to figure out what the tattoo on Potter’s back was. Draco knew he had one, he’d confessed it at one of their pub nights months ago. But this was the first time Draco had been allowed a glimpse of it and he was quite honestly finding it hard to get his fingers to remember how to take his own clothing off when they itched to stroke across the bare skin of Potter’s back. 

Potter chose that exact moment to shove his face under the heavy spray of the shower that was so hot the entire room was filling with steam already, rivulets of water cascading down the broad muscles of his shoulders, the sharp curve of his jutting shoulder blades and the dip at the base of his spine. Draco was barely aware of getting the rest of his clothing off or washing himself, what with Potter beside him naked and wet. Draco had tried to tell himself his burgeoning arousal was a perfectly normal reaction to being so close to another naked body. In fact, Potter was still a bit thin, but his body was strong and capable and the scars, rather than marring that perfection, made him seem more human, more real. It certainly wasn’t Draco’s fault his body was betraying him. Draco liked the male body, and Potter’s was particularly nice; it didn’t mean _anything._

A sofa cushion slamming into the side of his head disturbs Draco’s thoughts and brings him back to reality and the smell of freshly baked pizza wafting through the living room. He frowns as he takes in Potter’s not-so-innocent expression.

“Did you get Confunded on the way here?” Potter snorts, reaching out one bare foot to poke Draco’s leg—his long bony toe shoving into Draco’s thigh. 

Fucking Potter. It wasn’t like Draco wasn’t perfectly aware Potter showered, likely daily. It was just that being faced with the undeniable reality of a freshly showered, cosy Potter was bringing thoughts of a naked Potter, of his tattoo and arse and legs as the water travelled down his body. Fuck. They definitely need to study at Draco’s flat next time so Potter can’t pull this showering shit again. Honestly, how is Draco meant to study for their ethics and law exam tomorrow with Potter so close, smelling like, well, Draco can’t place what Potter’s body wash smells like, but it’s spicy and clean and Merlin, Draco likes it.

“No, I did not, you absolute menace,” Draco grumbles, trying to regain his mental composure.

Potter laughs, his eyes landing on the pizza box for the first time. “Did you go to Antonio’s?” he asks hopefully, looking like a kid on Christmas. It’s ridiculous sometimes, how easy Potter is to please. More unnerving than how easy it is to make him happy is Draco’s recent realisation that he _wants to_. Draco had, in fact, gone to Antonio’s—the pizza place all the way across town. Granted, Potter hadn’t asked him to go to the smallest, most crowded pizza place in all of London. There are half a dozen places between the Ministry and Potter’s flat he could’ve gone to on his way here, all of which would’ve been not only closer but substantially less crowded. It was just that Draco happens to know Potter likes Antonio’s best, and a well-fed Potter is a happy Potter, and a happy Potter is a better study partner. That’s all.

“Yes, I had a craving for their garlic knots,” Draco lies. The garlic knots are perfectly delicious but they’re not his favourite, they’re Potter’s. Potter, who last time Draco had bought them a few weeks ago had hoarded the entire package and chomped on them greedily, his fingers covered in shiny globs of butter and speckles of parsley as he’d made indecent noises, mumbling something about fresh bread dough and heaven in his mouth.

“Where are they?” Potter asks, and Merlin’s fucking beard, Potter’s voice takes on a pitch of excitement that makes Draco both immensely pleased he’d gone to all the trouble and simultaneously wishing he'd picked up a shitty pizza from that new place around the corner, because that tone of voice—that pleasure directed at him—is a lot to bear. Especially when all of his attention needs to be focussed on tomorrow’s exam. Their very important exam. The exam Draco absolutely and completely cannot afford to not get top marks on. He can’t afford to not do well at everything. Though no one has ever said the words out loud, he can’t shake the feeling that all it would take is one mistake, and he’d be out.

Draco drops the pizza box on the coffee table beside the beers Potter has set down, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a tiny foil bag, enlarging it quickly with a tap of his wand. 

“Fuck, I take back everything I said during training today—you’re the best partner in the world.” Potter snatches the bag from his hands as if he’s never had food before, dropping into the corner of the sofa and pulling his legs up to his chest as he opens the bag and pulls out one of the still-steaming garlic knots. “Oh my god, they're still hot,” Potter mumbles as he pops the entire thing into his mouth. 

It shouldn’t be attractive. Potter eats like a teenage boy who was starved for half his life, as if food is some sort of afforded luxury someone might take away from him if he doesn’t inhale it as fast as possible. His mouth is overfull, and he’s making noises that no one should make while eating, but he looks happy, and it’s hard to deny the way that makes Draco feel.

“I realise it’s your goal to eat like an utter barbarian, but some of us need plates.”

Potter pauses mid-chew to flip Draco off. He chews twice more before swallowing. Draco’s not sure why he bothers chewing at all when he seems intent on swallowing the bloody thing whole. 

“ _Accio_ plates,” Potter says without preamble. Draco is about to say that his hunger must’ve addled his brain, because Potter’s wand is on the coffee table and not in his hand, except seconds later two plates come whirring through the air and into Potter’s outstretched hand.

“What the actual fuck, Potter?”

“You said you wanted a plate.” Potter looks as confused as Draco feels. 

Since when could Potter do wandless magic? The absolute tosspot. Of course he can do wandless magic. It’s a skill usually only taught to the Unspeakables—not that Draco is supposed to know that—and he can’t recall the last wizard he knew who could do wandless magic besides Dumbledore. Even his father had been unable to master the skill, and Draco knew he’d spent many years—and pursued many less-than-legal avenues—trying to master the skill. And here is Potter casually doing it to avoid walking ten feet into the kitchen to get plates. Casually doing it as if it is a perfectly normal thing to do and not indicative of a deeply intuitive connection to his magic or an insane amount of raw power. Or in Potter’s case, probably both.

“Errr, it just sort of happened.” Potter hands Draco one of the plates and averts his gaze. Potter flips open the pizza box, pulling out a slice and setting it on Draco’s plate before getting one for himself. 

Draco doesn’t speak, too shocked to figure out what he wants to say. _It just happened._ Honestly. Just like Potter _just happened_ to survive the killing curse and _just happened_ to destroy the most powerful dark wizard of all time. At this point Draco doesn’t think anything Potter does will ever surprise him again. 

“You forgot the mushrooms,” Potter says.

Draco snorts. “I did not forget the mushrooms. They’re an abomination to pizza and food in general, and I refuse to allow it. Besides, you’re changing the subject. Wandless magic doesn’t just _happen_. It’s a skill that takes years to learn and perfect.” Draco’s not about to tell Potter just how much he knows about wandless magic, or how fucking jealous he is right now, and especially not how in awe of Potter he is. 

Potter shrugs, licking the butter off his lips. “I just figured out I could do it a few weeks ago. I was—” Potter stops, an unnatural blush blossoming across his cheeks. He clears his throat, grabbing his beer and taking a large chug before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “I was doing something, and I needed something, and um, I sort of yelled it out and it just worked. It’s not a big deal.”

Draco is pretty sure Harry could have the sword of Gryffindor protruding from his ribs and he’d say it was not a big deal. 

“You were doing _something_ and needed _something_?” Draco asks with a raised eyebrow, taking a bite of his pizza as Potter’s face turns even more red. He ducks his head as he takes an abnormally large bit of his own pizza and oh— _oh_! Fucking Potter, accidentally realising he could do wandless magic while wanking. At least Draco’s pretty certain that’s what Potter means, and fuck, his own face is hot now, probably nearly as red as Potter’s. 

He mimics Potter’s action, taking a bite twice as large as he normally would, desperately needing to keep his mouth occupied to stop himself from speaking. By the time the pizza and garlic knots are gone, nearly half an hour later, Draco is so full he thinks his stomach might explode. Potter, on the other hand, simply grabs his Auror handbook off the floor, flipping it open to his bookmark and bemoaning the fact that Draco didn’t buy dessert, as if he hadn't just eaten the entire bag of garlic knots and over half the pizza.

“I don’t know where the hell you could possibly fit dessert. You ate enough food to feed a Quidditch team.”

“Right here,” Potter says without mirth, lifting his t-shirt up to show his stomach. It’s absolutely ridiculous the way Potter’s stomach makes a hollow thump noise as he hits it. Despite the fact that Potter is still built a bit like a beanpole, his stomach protrudes slightly over the top of his trackies, soft and somehow human in a way Potter doesn’t always seem, not when he’s got his guards up with the rest of the world. A dark line of hair is visible just above his waistband, and Draco is halfway through a not-so-new fantasy involving Potter’s fingers slick with something besides residual butter from garlic knots when Potter lets out a groan of frustration.

“Fuck, I hate bureaucracy.”

Draco startles, absently grabbing his own book off the table to find the section he and Potter are supposed to be reviewing. “You do realise half of our job will be bureaucracy. It’s not all saving people and running around in fancy robes. There are rules, Potter. Rules and paperwork and levels of hierarchy and—” 

“Well, it’s bullshit!”

Draco readies himself. It’s not the first time they’ve done this. He’d known Potter had a distaste for authority, a penchant for following his own moral code rather the expectations or rules of society. He just hadn’t realised that Potter would keep doing that now. Draco had known exactly what he was getting into when he signed up for the Aurors. Yes, he wanted to make a difference and help people, but he knew his ability to do so was limited, most especially by the law. Potter seemed, up until this point, wilfully oblivious of this. In every training simulation, one-on-one duel, or defence training, Potter exceeded expectations. But now is the time to move beyond field work and into the legality of Auroring. The Ministry knows what they are all capable of, but now they want to know how they will apply those skills to the wizarding world at large. They want to know how well they will obey. How well they will enforce the laws they’ve established. Aurors are not in charge of making moral judgements, but legal ones.

Potter does not seem to be taking it well.

“Listen to this,” Potter intones, sitting up straighter. “Article 7, Clause 6—an Auror shall never disobey a direct order from a commanding officer for _any_ reason.” He spits the word any out as if it were poison.

Draco waits for the rest but it seems there is none. “ _And_?”

“What do you mean ‘and’? What if McKinnon says _‘Potter, report to the office at nine am sharp no matter what’_ and I just happen to stop and see some dark wizards illegally pushing counterfeit cursed objects through Mrs Cubbison's antique shop next to the little place on the corner, you know the one that does the really good bacon butties. How the hell would I make it to the office by nine if I wanted to eat my bacon butty and still have time to catch them?”

Draco’s not sure if Potter is joking or not. Sometimes Potter says things like this, as if the world is still at war, and Potter expects to find proof of it everywhere he goes. 

“Or,” Potter continues, ignoring Draco’s raised eyebrows, “what if it’s early on a Friday, and I’m stopping at the coffee place near the Ministry to get you that ridiculous excuse for coffee you like, and while in the queue I accidentally stumble upon some top-notch evidence regarding that safehouse that went rogue that Robards and McKinnon are so worked up about.”

“We’re not supposed to know about that,” Draco reminds him, but Potter just waves his hand in the air dismissively. Draco doesn’t want to think about what kind of trouble they’ll get in if McKinnon finds out that Potter had not-so-accidently read the open case file on his desk when Potter had been called in for his review meeting—during which McKinnon had been called from his office for five minutes—five minutes during which Potter had been unable to keep himself out of trouble and had read the horrifying truth about the family that had gone missing and the safehouse whose magic had been uncontrollable ever since. To make matters worse, the second Potter’s meeting was over, Potter had come and told Draco, making him an accomplice to Potter’s inability to mind his own business.

“I wasn’t supposed to know or do a lot of things in my life, but they all worked out fine.”

“You have a very broad definition of fine.” 

Draco supposes most of Potter’s endeavours really did work out fine. Or as fine as they could’ve, all things considered. Potter is alive and Voldemort isn’t, and that’s more than Draco could’ve hoped for a few years ago. He doesn’t want to say that out loud though. Potter’s good enough at rationalising the trouble he gets himself into without Draco letting him know that he thinks it’s worth it. Potter would be even more insufferable than usual if he knew Draco liked that Potter followed his moral compass, even when it fucked things over for him or other people. He liked knowing that no matter what happened in his life, or how crazy the world ever got, he could at least count on Potter to never let anyone else tell him who to be or how to act. But that didn’t mean Potter didn’t still drive him absolutely fucking mental at times like this.

“Your examples are utterly ridiculous anyway, so it's a moot point. You’re not going to solve any cases while getting bacon butties and coffee. You need to focus. _We_ need to focus. What we need to do is memorise this section of the Auror code of conduct handbook so we can pass our exam tomorrow.”

Potter sighs heavily, dropping his open handbook into his lap and crossing his arms. “But what about after? What happens when we become Aurors? It’s not just knowing these laws and rules for a test. This is real life! Are you honestly telling me that if there was a life or death situation and your superior gave you a direct order to do something, but you knew there was another way—a way that might save someone, a way that felt more right—that you could still follow those orders?”

“Yes,” Draco answers honestly. He’s spent a lifetime following orders, doing what was expected of him, learning to obey. This is nothing new for Draco. The only difference here is at least Draco knows he’s on the right side this time. There are exceptions to every rule, but Draco respects why the rules are there and the order and peace they are meant to uphold.

“Well, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. If I have a chance to save someone then—” He paused, inhaling deeply before continuing, “then I’m going to do it. I can be a good partner, Malfoy. I’ll have your back. But I won’t...I won’t follow an order I don’t believe in.”

“I know, Potter,” he says quietly.

Potter nods, pulling at the string at the waistband of his trackies and twisting it around his fingers. He does not look at all unburdened by his confession. Potter’s movements are tainted with a heaviness as he moves, a stiffness in his body as he drops the string and picks up his handbook instead, a weariness in his eyes as he skims the pages in front of him and a tension in his voice as he begins to read the next section out loud.

Draco swallows down the words of comfort on the tip of his tongue. This tentative friendship he and Potter are developing is more than fine, but the other things Draco wants from Potter—well, those are dangerous.

Draco can’t afford to live dangerously. Not now. Not ever.

****

***~*~***

**4th October 2002 - 4:28 pm**

“ _Tempus_ ,” Draco murmurs, surprised to find that it’s nearly half past four in the afternoon. 

He knows he’s been hiding in the bedroom for quite a long time, but he hasn’t quite realised it’s been that long. After finally getting all the beans out of his beard, hair and even down his shirt, he’d been about to Vanish them when Potter had appeared from the kitchen with his hands thrown in the air yelling that they didn’t know how long they’d be stuck here, and what was Draco thinking about to Vanish perfectly good food rations. Draco had been unable to stop himself from pointing out that beans that had previously been residing inside his beard and were now on the dirty floor were most certainly not “good food rations,” at which point Potter had called him a pretentious spoiled wanker. Draco had been afraid if he’d stayed in the room one second longer he might’ve punched him, or— he didn’t like to think about the other thing he’d been close to doing. So instead he’d grabbed his book off the sofa and stalked down the hallway to the bedroom where he’d slammed the door as hard as humanly possible before warding the door for good measure. He had no idea if Potter had tried to come into the bedroom after; he hoped so, if only because he knew it would drive Potter bonkers to know that Draco had effectively locked him out.

Draco had spent the next few hours surprisingly absorbed in the rest of _Auror Academy Adventures_ , astonished at the array of subjects tackled in a series meant for Hogwarts-aged children. Of course, once Draco had finished the anthology he had nothing left to distract him, and his hunger and feelings of embarrassment began to emerge with startling ferocity. 

While Potter had been an absolute knobhead for throwing a bag of beans at him earlier, Draco was mature enough to know that he had goaded him into it; Draco knew exactly how to get under the other man’s skin and he’d used that knowledge. He is still fairly annoyed at Potter, but he is also starving and tired of his own company, which leaves him only one option—emerging from the bedroom.

Draco spends at least five minutes reminding himself that he’s faced worse—the full wrath of the Wizengamot after the war, his parents when he’d admitted to wanting to become an Auror, and innumerable dark wizards—but somehow being on the wrong end of Potter’s unhappiness still seems worse.

Ten minutes later, after spelling the wrinkles from his clothing and attempting to tame his hair into some semblance of order, he finally takes down the wards and pushes the bedroom door open. The silence is not surprising but somehow still completely off-putting; his stomach twists uncomfortably as he slowly makes his way into the living room. To Draco’s surprise there is not a single bean in sight. In fact, it looks as if the entire room has been cleaned and tidied. The curtains, which were previously falling off the windows, have been straightened, the floor looks clean enough to eat off, the bookshelves have been dusted and re-organized and there’s a fire crackling in the hearth. Draco has suspected on more than one occasion that Potter might be a stress cleaner, and he’s now certain of it as he steps closer to the bookshelf and finds that Potter has even alphabetized the books. 

Draco leans back on his heels to peer through the doorway to the poky little kitchen where Potter is sat at the table, his shoulders tense as he pokes at a plate of food. _A plate of food._ Draco’s stomach growls loudly as he closes his eyes and inhales the smells coming from the kitchen. Draco doesn’t have a fucking clue what it might be or where Potter got food, but he’s not sure he cares, either. The last thing he ate was that disgusting porridge nearly eight hours before and he’s hungry enough to eat almost anything. If Potter notices him in the living room, he says nothing, and it takes Draco all of two seconds to decide that yes, he is definitely hungry enough to brave walking into the kitchen to plop himself down into the chair opposite Potter at the small table.

Potter doesn’t say anything at first, just looks up at Draco before wandlessly summoning another plate of food. Draco watches the plate fly across the room to land in front of him, followed immediately by a napkin, fork, and a glass of water. Potter takes another large bite of his food, his jaw muscles popping as he chews. Draco can see the tension radiating off Potter, his hand gripping his fork as tightly as he grips his wand in battle. Draco’s hunger momentarily subsides at the idea of Potter being uncomfortable around him.

Unable to stand the sight of Potter silently eating, Draco finally looks down at the piping hot plate of food before him. There’s rice on one side, that’s easy enough to identify, but he has no idea what the other thing on the plate is. There are several triangle-shaped chunks of something covered in a thick sauce which is seeping into the rice. On closer inspection the sauce smells sweet, almost vinegary and is an almost black colour.

“What is it?” Draco asks, picking up his fork and poking the mystery food.

Potter chews three more times before swallowing his food and fixing his eyes on Draco. “Baked tofu in a strawberry balsamic glaze.” He says it as if it’s a perfectly normal meal to have after eating death fire pot noodles and bland instant porridge. 

“Baked tofu in a strawberry balsamic glaze,” Draco asks with a squeak in his voice, unable to disguise his surprise.

Potter nods, scooping up a bite of rice stained black from the sauce, a droplet of which clings to the corner of Potter’s mouth before his tongue slips out to lick it off.

“There’s no vegetables,” Draco says, his mouth suddenly dry as he reaches for his water.

Potter snorts loudly, rolling his eyes at Draco. "Why don’t you take it up with the head of the Auror department whenever we get out of here. Maybe they should hire a dietary consultant next time they stock the safehouses.”

“Insufferable wanker,” Draco grumbles, piercing the smallest piece of tofu with his fork and lifting it up to inspect it. It smells sweet but vinegary, and Draco can see that it is not actually black, but rather an incredibly dark red. He darts his tongue out to taste the glaze, surprised at the complexity of flavours. Deciding he’s hungry enough to be adventurous, he pops the entire thing in his mouth. The tofu, it turns out, is a strange, if not unpleasant, texture—somehow both soft and firm, almost spongy, and decidedly substantial. The glaze is tangy and sweet, and Draco shoves a second huge piece in his mouth, having to remind himself to chew like a civilised person and not let his hunger diminish his table manners.

Potter is watching him, some of the tension in his body bleeding away. “Like it?”

Draco clears his throat, scooping up some rice with his next bite. “It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in days. What tin did it come out of?”

Potter ducks his head, several stray pieces of hair falling into his eyes behind his glasses as he pushes a piece of tofu around his own plate. “It didn’t come from a tin. I made it.”

Draco cannot fathom why Potter’s voice sounds tight. 

“You made this?” Draco asks incredulously, dropping his fork on his plate with a loud clatter. “ _You_? The man who never has anything to eat in his flat except toast and takeaway and who has been known to have crisps for breakfast when he doesn’t have time to grab a bacon butty on the way to work?”

Potter doesn’t answer him, instead shoving his mouth full of food again and then waving his fork in a ridiculous manner as he chews, as if to indicate that he cannot talk. Draco sighs quietly, trying to let it go, but after two more bites he can’t stand it. The tofu isn’t just edible, it’s actually really fucking good—the corners with the most glaze caramelized and sweet—and Draco can’t stand his curiosity a moment longer.

“Potter, if you can cook, why the fuck have we been eating nothing but takeaway for the last two years?”

Potter’s mouth goes tight as he takes a deep breath. When he looks up there’s an unreadable expression in his eyes and Draco wonders not for the first time how many things he still doesn’t know about Potter.

“I don’t like to cook.”

Draco waits for the rest of the explanation, but after several long minutes of silence he accepts that none is forthcoming. If he’s learned anything about Potter over the last few years, it's that pushing Potter to divulge his truths before he’s ready will only end up in another bag of beans flying at his head or another book flung at the wall. Draco had got so used to him, to his power and his moods, he sometimes forgets all the things Potter is capable of—kindness, cruelty, deception, or the kind of painful honesty that makes Draco sometimes wish they were lies. Times like this Potter reminds him of a caged animal, waiting to strike or waiting to be attacked. He doesn’t respond well to pressure, but to patience, and lucky for them both Draco’s had a lot of practice learning the latter.

Desperate for a distraction, Draco opens his mouth and says the first thing that comes to mind. “It’s too bad we can’t go outside. If we could, I’m quite certain I could Transfigure my boots into wellies and hunt for a quail. Not that the tofu isn’t delicious but you know,” Draco waves his fork around making several few pieces of rice fly onto the table, “it’s still tofu.”

“You do realise that if we could go outside, we could go home.”

Draco tuts. “Details, Potter. I’m just talking possibilities and this glaze would be delicious on quail.”

Potter looks like he’s trying not to laugh, the corner of his mouth turning up as he bites the inside of his cheek. “Gonna Transfigure that boring shirt of yours into some tartan robes? Transfigure a spoon into a hunting rifle? The chair into a hunting dog?”

Draco smiles despite himself. “For your information, I look amazing in tartan. Besides, I’m a wizard, I don’t need a hunting rifle. I have a _wand_.”

“Oh, I know!” Potter says, undeterred, his voice taking on a pitch of excitement, the closest to its normal tone since they got stuck in the safehouse. “Maybe we could Transfigure the extra cups and bowls into some clay shooting discs.”

Draco bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Fuck you.”

“Do you really know how to hunt quail?” Potter asks a moment later, scooping up the last of his rice onto his fork. He chews slowly, methodically, as he watches Draco.

“Sure. All country aristocrats do. I learned for fun probably the same way you learned to...I dunno what Muggles do for fun...ride one of those bicycle things, maybe.”

Potter’s face darkens, his previous smile beginning to fall as he shrugs. “I don’t think I had the best example of what Muggles do for fun. I never learned to ride a bike.”

“Well, you learned to cook. Is that something all Muggles learn as children, then?” Draco asks, so preoccupied with trying to scoop up all the extra glaze on his last bite of tofu that he misses the way Potter tenses, at least not until he looks up, his mouth full. Potter is already pushing away from the table. 

Potter moves like a man who knows his way around the kitchen, loading up all the leftovers onto two plates and casting a stasis charm on them. Draco can only assume he’s saving it for tomorrow, since their likelihood of leaving this craphole seems slim to none at the moment. Draco chews as fast as he can, finally rising from the table with his own dirty plate in hand. Potter turns the water on in the sink, rolling up his sleeves, presumably to do the washing up by hand and not with magic, though Merlin knows why.

“Potter, why the hell don’t you just use your wand?”

“Just because something is possible doesn’t mean we always have to do it that way. Lots of things are possibilities and we don’t….we don’t take them.” Potter doesn’t quite meet Draco’s eyes when he speaks.

If Potter is hoping for some kind of response, he doesn't show it, instead shoving his hands into the water as he adds soap to the water, the sink filling with enough bubbles that Potter’s hands all but disappear. Draco stands there longer than he’d like to admit, watching Potter and feeling as if Potter is talking about a lot more than just the washing up.

****

***~*~***

**7th August 2001**

“Oi, you wanker, give that back; that was mine!” Finnigan shouts, and the only thing louder than Finnigan’s high-pitched scream is the Wireless blaring the newest Celestina Warbeck from the corner of the living room.

Finnigan has already had at least twice as much to drink as Draco and it shows, his body swaying as he waggles his finger in the air at his boyfriend. Thomas doesn’t seem bothered, laughing as he tips his head back dramatically to finish Finnigan’s beer, which seems to be the final straw as Finnigan jumps onto Thomas’s back and attaches himself like some sort of tentacled monster, arms and legs curling around him as he whispers something that makes Thomas howl with laughter. Thomas keeps walking as if he doesn’t have a person attached to his back, laughing at whatever Finnigan says as they make their way into the kitchen.

Draco lifts his beer to his mouth, not at all thirsty but feeling possibly too sober for _this_. He’s not entirely sure at what point he went from Potter’s training partner to Potter’s friend to someone Potter’s friends like (or at least tolerate), but apparently he has, since he’d got an owl inviting him to Granger and Weasley’s flat for a party celebrating the end of Auror training. 

He looks around the crowded flat and dips his fingers under the collar of his shirt, wishing he’d worn something less formal—less hot. 

There are too many people crowded into such a small space, and though it’s obviously been temporarily enlarged—likely by Granger—there’s still not quite enough space for the mass of Weasleys and the rest of their class of trainees, all of whom have taken the end of their two-year programme as some sort of challenge to drink themselves into a stupor. Well, almost all of them. Potter’s been nursing the same beer for nearly an hour, his eyes occasionally flickering around the room.

If he stops to think about it, they’re not trainees any longer. Come Monday morning they will be Aurors. Or, he assumes they will be. None of them will get their results until they report to the Ministry at exactly eight am sharp, when they will get their full results and their official partner assignments. Something else Draco doesn’t want to think about. He and Potter have worked well together the last two years, quite well. If Draco is honest with himself, he’s not sure he can imagine partnering with anyone else. He’s certainly grown to like the others, to appreciate Finnigan’s endless positivity, Patil’s quick wit, and Goldstein’s systematic ability to delegate tasks. But he doesn’t trust them. Not the way he trusts Potter. 

Draco’s almost certain he’s passed, that they all have, but he finds himself unable to relax the way everyone else clearly has, almost too afraid to celebrate before he’s absolutely sure. He can’t muster relief at training being over, even though it's everything he’s worked diligently for the last two years. Because the truth is, after this everything will change and as difficult as it is to admit, Draco doesn’t want anything to change. He likes being partnered with Potter, likes arguing with him daily, likes that Potter brings him a latte and a muffin every Friday without being asked, likes knowing what Potter’s favourite takeaway order is. Fuck, he just likes Potter. He can’t imagine partnering with someone else, having to get to know their moods and routines, having to find a way to make their temperaments mesh—having to decide whether he can trust them with his life.

“Malfoy,” Granger says, coming to stand beside him. Draco does a double take, looking around for Weasley or Potter, but they’re clear on the other side of the room with several of Weasley’s brothers. Draco has no idea what any of them are saying, they’re too far away and the music is too loud, but if the way Potter collapses against Weasley as he laughs into his shoulder is anything to go by, it must be hilarious.

“Granger,” he says politely. “Thank you for the invite.”

Granger smiles, though Draco almost wishes she hadn’t. There’s something friendly in it, but something calculating as well—as if she knows something no one else does—and Draco’s throat closes up as he struggles to swallow his next drink of beer.

“You don’t look nearly as pleased as everyone else that your training is over.”

Draco doesn’t turn his eyes to Granger, too busy watching Potter and Weasley and the easy way they shove each other back and forth in some sort of mock argument. “I just know better than to count my eggs before they hatch.”

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Granger says easily, and this time Draco’s head turns around to look at her so fast he nearly gets whiplash.

“What does that mean?”

Granger lifts her drink to her mouth, her dark eyes unwavering as she eyes Draco over the rim of her glass. She takes a slow, methodical sip before speaking. “Perhaps you should ask Harry.”

Draco bristles. “Potter seems rather occupied.”

Granger hums noncommittally and a look flashes across her face that Draco cannot decipher. It’s only a few seconds before her attention is drawn back towards Weasley and Potter in the corner and her entire demeanour softens, her look fond as she watches them. The rest of the extended Weasley clan has dispersed, but Potter and Weasley are still there, looking happier than anyone else at the party. He marvels at the way Granger can go from looking like she might hex someone to looking like _that_. 

“They’re happy,” she says, almost as if to herself.

Draco’s not sure what to say to that, so he takes another swig of beer, wishing fervently that he had something stronger to drink. 

It’s almost worse, he marvels, to feel so close to being a part of Potter’s world like this while also knowing that come Monday they’ll have new partners and that everything will change. There won’t be the need for Potter to send him owls in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep under the guise of asking inane questions that he knows Potter already knows the answer to, they won’t need to have multiple late night study sessions a week that are often filled more with junk food than actual studying—they won’t have an excuse to be friends. 

Sure, come next week they’ll both be Aurors—both working in the same department—but their lives won’t be intertwined the way they are now. Draco is smart enough to recognise that Potter already has Weasley and Granger in his life, and once he gets a new partner he won’t need Draco too. 

Problem is, Draco thinks, watching Potter turn and give him a half wave before whispering something to Weasley, Draco will still need him.

“You know, Harry really—” Granger starts, but her words are cut off by a loud explosion in the kitchen. There’s a moment of confusion in which he, Ron, and Harry all pull their wands, but then Finnigan pokes his head out of the doorway, his face covered in ash and a look of remorse on his face.

“Er, sorry about that. I think we can fix the table,” Finnigan mutters.

“Oh for goodness sake, Seamus!” Granger mutters. “If you’ll excuse me, Malfoy,” she says, not waiting for his reply as she hurries across the room and into the kitchen, plumes of white smoke billowing out. Weasley claps Potter on the back before following her.

It’s only a minute later, once Potter has crossed the room and is standing beside him, that he realises he never did get to hear what Granger was going to say, the lingering curiosity prickling his insides as Potter leans his shoulder against Draco’s companionably. Draco forces himself not to move, not that he has any intention of moving away from Potter, but he has to physically stop himself from leaning into the contact. It would be easier to believe that it’s just the fact that Draco is entirely deprived of touch lately, but while that might be true, he knows the larger truth is just that it's _Potter’s_ touch. It’s the realisation that Potter, who holds back a bit of himself with almost everyone aside from his two best friends, doesn’t seem to be holding back anything from Draco.

“You ready for Monday?” Potter asks, his voice warm and friendly, heavy as treacle as the words wash over Draco. 

No, he’s not ready at all.

“Of course I am. We’ve all worked hard for this.”

Potter turns to him, his eyes heavy-lidded and Draco thinks perhaps Potter is more bevved than he thought. “What about the partner assignments?”

Draco swallows audibly, the heat from Potter’s shoulder infusing his own body with warmth. Potter’s chest rises and falls slowly, the soft cotton of his t-shirt clinging to his broad chest. His hands are wrapped around his beer and he stares down at it, running his thumb over the lip of the beer bottle. 

“I try not to think about things I have no control over.”

Potter licks his lips, his eyes bright as they bore into Draco’s. Draco wishes he could pretend it’s the alcohol, but Potter is always like this, always unabashedly earnest in those quiet moments when he looks at Draco like this—as if Draco is missing something.

“If I found out something I wasn’t supposed to know, would you want to know?”

“Yes,” Draco answers immediately, refusing to acknowledge the way Potter’s pleased smile makes his stomach feel twisted up in knots. He’s positive his answer should have been no, almost as positive as he is that nothing in the world could have got him to tell Potter no.

“Robards took me in his office this afternoon after the final exam.” Potter waggles his eyebrow in some half-hearted attempt at Merlin’s know what. If Potter sober is bad at subtlety, drunk Potter is twice as bad. Potter is about as subtle as a blind Hippogriff stumbling around in the dark.

“Yes, I saw you. What’s your point?” He doesn’t want to admit that he’d been dying to know what Robards had wanted since the moment he’d seen Potter’s head of black hair heading into his office on his way out of the Ministry.

Potter bristles, pulling away from Draco and taking a chug of his beer. He’s got a pathetic pout on his face, eyes wide and his bottom lip beginning to turn out. “If you don’t want to know then—”.

Fucking hell, but Potter is sensitive when he’s had too much to drink.

“Calm down, Potter. I’m absolutely dying to know. In fact, there is nothing in the world I would rather know at this exact moment in time than this bit of incredibly important information you’re about to disclose.”

Potter sticks his tongue out at Draco cheekily, clearly sober enough to at least realise Draco is teasing him, but he continues to speak nonetheless. “He congratulated me on my hard work and accidently let it slip that our entire group passed.”

A warmth spreads through Draco, enveloping his entire body and making his chest feel light in ways he’s not felt in years. Sure, he’d been almost certain he passed, but actual confirmation allays the fears he’d refused to acknowledge.

“That’s fantastic,” he says.

Potter looks immensely pleased with himself as he leans in close, his breath ghosting across Draco’s cheek as he whispers into Draco’s ear, “Want to know what else he told me?”

Draco nearly drops his beer, nodding his head and trying not to focus on the scent of alcohol on Potter’s breath mingled with his cologne. Merlin, he smells good. Fucking Potter.

“Robards said you and I work well together and that he was going to be making sure we continued to work well together.” Potter waggles his eyebrows again, but the move is so utterly ridiculous that Potter’s words don’t quite penetrate Draco’s brain. Harry sighs, shaking his head and throwing his arm around Draco’s shoulder and that really doesn’t help his ability to think clearly or concentrate on the words coming out of Potter’s mouth. “We’re still going to be partners,” he says, his words far too loud to be a whisper. He puts his finger over his mouth as he looks around the room, as if to shush Draco. As if Draco is the one in this scenario who might spill department secrets. It’s laughable and more endearing than it should be. Potter’s always a little less serious when he’s drunk, a little lighter, freer with his touches and his smiles and Draco can’t help but wonder if this is what Potter might have always been like without the walls a lifetime of loss and war forced him to put up.

“Partners. We’re still going to be partners?” Draco knows he’s repeating Harry’s words back to him, but he can’t help it. They’d been told in no uncertain terms by McKinnon just last week that who they were matched up with for training was not going to be who they were matched up with once they became full Aurors. 

Draco had not allowed himself to think of this as a real possibility, not once. 

Potter nods his head slowly, looking immensely pleased with himself. He doesn’t remove the arm around Draco’s shoulder, leaning his chin on Draco’s shoulder. Potter’s chin is poky but so is Draco’s shoulder, so maybe they’re well-matched.

“Isn’t that great?” Potter asks, though it's clearly not a question.

“Great,” Draco echoes, face splitting in a smile so wide he couldn’t hide it if he tried and yet unable to explain why the idea of nothing changing makes it feel as if everything has changed.

 

****

***~*~***

**5th October, 2002 - 6:13 am**

Draco groans loudly as he opens his eyes from one of the worst night’s sleep he’s ever had, which is saying something. Merlin’s fucking beard, Potter wasn’t kidding about the bloody sofa being uncomfortable. He half wonders if he pulled a muscle in his neck while he slept because it twinges a bit when he turns his head to blear at the window, which is streaming in far more sunlight than seems right, given what time it probably is and the fact that it’s England. The damn house seems to think they either need waking up or cheering up, but regardless of which it is, it's far too early for either, in Draco’s not so humble opinion. He yanks the pillow out from under his head and shoves it over his face to block out the light. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to convince his brain that it's not morning, especially with the way his stomach grumbles, making its hunger known. Fuck, all Draco wants is a decently brewed cup of tea and a freshly baked lemon and blueberry muffin from the Ministry canteen. With a heavy sigh of resignation, Draco knocks the pillow to the floor then arches his back in a stretch before throwing his legs over the side of the sofa and kicking the blanket to the floor. His back aches, and his legs are stiff from being cramped. 

Draco can hear Potter puttering around the kitchen again and looks down at his pyjamas, momentarily debating if he should bother Transfiguring them back into his shirt and trousers, when the scent of coffee assaults his nose and he finds his feet moving before he’s consciously made the decision.

“Potter, is that coffee?” Draco asks, leaning against the doorframe and watching Potter hum as he digs around the pantry above the sink in search of something. He’s still wearing his pyjama bottoms, which once again are hanging low on his hips, though he’s thankfully got a cotton t-shirt on this time. Not that it helps all that much, with the way Potter’s extending his arms above his head to reach for something, making his shirt ride up several inches to reveal just enough of his tattoo and tan skin to make Draco wish he’d worn something less revealing than thin cotton pyjama bottoms. He clears his throat as he attempts to adjust his own bottoms, grateful Potter isn't looking at him.

“Depends on your definition of coffee,” Potter laughs, clearly in a much better mood than the day before. Draco can’t help but wonder if it's due to a good night’s sleep, since Draco had insisted Potter take the bedroom last night, or the fact that Potter had at some point over the last few years become a bit of an insufferable morning person—the previous day apparently not included. “Figured out that jar of unidentifiable brown stuff was actually instant coffee.”

Draco tries not to let his disappointment show. Instant coffee. Bloody hell, it’s probably not even the halfway decent stuff like Nescafe. It’s probably something ghastly like Mellow Birds. 

“Feeling brave?” Potter asks, turning around with two steaming cups of said coffee in his hands, before holding one of them out towards Draco.

“I come into work every day knowing I’m partnered with you, so I must be pretty fucking brave.”

Potter’s face breaks into an easy smile and Draco’s pretty sure Potter could be holding a steaming cup of the Drink of Despairand he’d still take it if he looked at him like _that_. His feet move across the cheap linoleum floor of the kitchen until he’s standing beside Potter. Fucking Potter and his sleep-mussed hair and bright eyes, his fingers impossibly warm as they brush over Draco’s as he hands him the steaming cup of swill disguised as coffee. Potter looks inordinately pleased as he lifts his own mug to his mouth, considering he's about to drink unsweetened shit instant coffee.

“This is going to be as revolting as the porridge, isn’t it?” Draco asks. Except, to his complete surprise when he looks down into his cup, he finds that it is not black but rather looks fairly milky, just the way Draco likes his coffee on the rare chance he drinks it—usually only when Potter brings him back a latte from the coffee shop near his flat on Monday mornings.

Draco brings his mug to his mouth, instinctively blowing on it before hesitantly taking a small sip. To his amazement, not only is it the perfect temperature, its neither revolting nor bitter. In fact, it’s rich and sweet and tastes like coconut. He’s not sure he’d ever thought coconut and coffee would go well together, but as he closes his eyes and takes a second much bigger drink, he feels the fatigue of his poor night’s sleep and his lingering tension bleed away. When he opens his eyes, Potter’s wearing the biggest shit-eating grin, and Draco feels the laugh bubble out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“It’s tolerable.”

Potter snorts, chewing on the inside of his cheek before he speaks. “Tolerable my arse. You looked like you were gonna orgasm drinking that. Come on, say it. Say Potter is a fucking master in the kitchen and I bow down to him.”

“I will say no such thing, you egotistical fucking madman,” Draco deadpans, taking another drink of his coffee. Every drink seems better, as if it’s warming more than just his empty belly. “Where the hell did you get milk and sugar and whatever you put in it to make it taste like a beach holiday, anyway?”

There’s no sugar; it’s just the milk. One of the unlabelled tins was coconut milk.”

“What’d you do, open them _all_ to figure that out?” Draco peers around Potter's shoulder to look at the counter. An array of tins is scattered across the counter, all opened.

Potter shrugs. “I cast a stasis charm to keep them until—well, until we get out of here. I mean, we had to find out what was inside at some point. Anyway, coconut milk is quite sweet, which helps since there’s no bloody sugar in this house.”

“Right,” Draco says, grateful Potter’s said when and not if they get out of here. He takes another drink, disappointed when he realises his cup will be empty soon if he doesn't slow down. “Well I suppose if you ever get fired from the Aurors you’d make a passable barista.”

“I’ll add that to the top of my possible career choices, thanks.” He sticks his tongue out at Draco petulantly and Draco tries to ignore the fluttering sensation in his chest. “Hungry?” Harry adds, nodding towards the table where Draco notices for the first time the leftovers from last night.

“Starving,” he admits, not exactly excited about the prospect of tofu and rice for breakfast. Although all things considered, it’s worlds better than instant porridge, or worse still, nothing.

They sit in companionable silence, and Draco is halfway through with his food when Potter sends his own half full cup of coffee sailing across the table with a flick of his wand. Draco raises an eyebrow in question and Potter’s cheeks go pink as he ducks his head. 

“I was getting a bit tired of it,” he mumbles. “Better you drink it than it goes to waste.”

Draco knows it’s a lie. Potter likes coffee far more than Draco, but it’s a lie Draco lets him think he’s got away with, finding himself equally as unable to admit the truth as Potter.

“I suppose I could manage to drink a bit more.”

Potter smiles around a bite of food, his eyes watching Draco from beneath the hair that’s fallen across his face. It’s got quite a bit longer in the last few months, long enough that if Potter lets it grow any more he’ll be able to pull it back into a bun soon. He keeps talking about getting it cut, about it being a nuisance, but Draco can’t help but find Potter’s reluctance to cut his hair endearing. He secretly rather likes the way it hangs down around Potter’s chin, likes the way it falls across his glasses when he’s leaning forward and he especially likes the way the longer strands curl at the base of his neck. There’s something almost wild and free about it, such a juxtaposition to the kind of control Potter exhibits in all other aspects of his life.

Draco spends the rest of breakfast barely tasting his food as he tries not to image the way his hands might feel fisted in Potter’s hair, tries not to imagine the taste of coconut and coffee lingering on Potter’s tongue if he were to press him against the wall and kiss him.

 _Fuck_. Draco is clearly losing his bloody mind.

“Malfoy, are you listening to me?” Potter sounds amused as he snaps his fingers in front of Draco’s face. Draco shakes his head, his face flushing in embarrassment. It’s only then that he notices Potter has cleared the dirty plates and has apparently been speaking to him. Not that Draco noticed, what with his brain on another planet, apparently daydreaming about the kinds of sounds Potter might make if Draco were to graze his nails down his back.

“Sorry, I was just thinking. What did you say?”

Potter runs his hands through his hair, haphazardly piling it atop his head. Instead of looking ridiculous, it simply makes him look dishevelled in a way only Potter could manage to make that attractive. “I asked if you wanted to play Exploding Snap. I found a deck of cards in the desk drawer when I was cleaning yesterday.”

“Why not, I haven’t beat you at that in weeks,” Draco says, rising from the table and following Potter into the living room, eyes fixated on Potter’s backside. 

Potter shoots Draco an incredulous look over his shoulder. “Who the fuck says you’re going to beat me?”

“Well, me, obviously,” Draco says, voice serious as he drops down onto the sofa. 

Potter mutters something under his breath that sounds decidedly like _over my dead body_ but Draco pretends not to hear him as he pulls the coffee table closer.

They spend the next few hours absorbed in the game as Potter recounts several animated stories, each one more ludicrous than the last, about long games of Exploding Snap when he’d gone back for his eighth year at Hogwarts—one in particular where Ron and Seamus had been drunk and somehow ended up in the Great Lake naked and drunk. That story distracts Draco so much that Potter, the bloody cheater, beats him for the second time. To Draco’s immense pleasure, he wins the next two games, at which point Potter declares defeat by tossing the rest of his cards on the table with a frown, dropping onto the sofa and plopping his feet directly in Draco’s lap.

“I need a nap,” Potter says, wiggling as if to get comfortable, his cold toes pressing into Draco’s forearm. 

“Yes, I imagine losing is rather exhausting,” Draco agrees, almost afraid to breathe lest Potter move.

“Wanker,” Potter mutters, turning onto his side and curling his legs up as he reaches to the floor for one of the discarded sofa pillows and hugs it to his chest. Draco swallows down his disappointment at the loss of contact, wondering not for the first time why Potter always seems to try to take up the least amount of space as humanly possible when he sleeps. To Draco’s utter surprise, Potter does in fact fall asleep, his rhythmic breathing filling the silence as his arm goes lax in sleep and falls off the end of the couch.

“You’re an absolute menace to my heart,” Draco sighs, leaning in, his chest brushing across the warmth of Potter’s side as he plucks Potter’s glasses from his face and deposits them on the coffee table before settling back in his previous seat. Potter lets out a soft sigh in his sleep, rolling onto his back as the pillow slips from his grip and to the floor. Draco holds his breath watching as Potter’s face tenses, his breathing picking up and his hands clenching in his sleep. The cards on the coffee table begin to flutter and before he can think twice, Draco reaches out to pull Potter’s feet into his lap, rubbing soothing circles on his ankle as he begins to recount the entire plot of _Auror Academy Adventures_. 

Draco barely breathes as he speaks in a low monotone voice, watching the tense lines of Potter’s rigid body slowly begin to relax. It’s not the first time he’s seen Potter have a nightmare, but it’s the first time he’s felt brave enough to do something besides watch in helplessness. Several long minutes pass before Potter’s fingers finally uncurl and the few stray Exploding Snap cards that had begun to float fall to the table with a soft bang that surprisingly doesn’t wake Potter. Even after it’s clear Potter’s bad dream has subsided, Draco doesn’t pull back, his hand remaining on Potter’s ankle as he traces the knobbly bone with the tips of his fingers before he slips his hand beneath the hem of Potter’s pyjama bottoms to rest on the warmth of Potter’s leg. Closing his eyes, Draco lets his head fall to the back of the sofa as he continues to recount the story, his voice slow and heavy, until he too drifts into an easy sleep.

When Draco wakes sometime later, Potter is still asleep, though beginning to stir, and Draco yanks his hand away, scooting as far into the corner of the sofa as possible as he watches Potter arch like a kneazle, stretching out his long arms and legs. It takes him a moment to realise his legs are on top of Draco and he clears his throat as he practically jumps off the sofa.

“Sorry,” he mutters, reaching for his glasses and haphazardly shoving them on his face.

Draco opens his mouth to speak, but his stomach rumbles loudly. He snaps his mouth shut, rubbing his cheek in chagrin. 

“What time is it?” Potter asks, lifting his arms above his head before leaning back in another exaggerated stretch, the long strip of skin along his stomach where his t-shirt rises showing.

“Not sure,” Draco answers, reaching for his wand off the table and casting a Tempus charm. He’s surprised to find that it’s nearly three—well past lunch. No wonder his stomach is making itself known.

“Hungry?” Potter asks when Draco’s stomach rumbles again, albeit quieter this time at least.

Draco nods, rising to stand and stretch out his own kinks, pretending not to notice when Potter pretends to study the ugly painting on the far wall of a cat in a top hat and not Draco. 

“You gonna cook again?” Draco asks, trying not to sound as hopeful as he feels.

Potter sucks his cheek into his mouth, chewing on as if deep in thought before shrugging. “I mean, yeah. We’ve got to eat.”

“Can I watch?” Draco asks before he can think better of it.

Potter’s entire body stills, and Draco can’t explain why the answer feels so important. Potter stays quiet for long seconds, his eyes unwavering in their intensity as he watches Draco without blinking.

“Yes,” Potter answers, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the answer has cost him something.

Draco nods, not trusting himself to speak as he follows Potter into the kitchen and settles himself at the table in the opposite chair he usually sits in so he can better watch. Potter turns to glance at him a few times, as if he’s nervous about being something, as if Draco’s opinion of him matters. There’s a strange tension buzzing in the air and Draco isn’t sure if it’s the house or them. Draco’s lost count of the number of times he’s been alone with Potter over the last few years, but it's never been like this—it’s never been just them with no distractions, no cases to discuss or excuses of work to finish or spells to practice.

Draco has no idea what Potter might be making. He moves about the kitchen and gathers up ingredients, depositing everything beside the stove, but after yesterday's meal Draco’s more excited than nervous, confident it’ll at least be more edible than those poor Muggle excuses for shelf-stable food. Draco recognises the glass jar of rice and the rest of the tin of coconut milk, though what else Potter is using he has no idea. There are some unidentified jars of spices he’d not bothered inspecting the other day and a tin with no label. Potter taps the pan with his wand, filling it with water before adding the rice and turning the knob on the stove.

Draco is hyper-aware of Potter in a way he’s not sure he ever has been before—of Potter’s confidence, belied by a quietness that he knows most people either overlook or willfully ignore in favour of focussing on Potter’s boldness, which is admittedly quite magnetic—of the way the muscles in Potter’s forearms pop when he grips the glass bottle of oil tightly as he drizzles some into the hot pan, or the way he chews on the corner his bottom lip as he dumps the package of what Draco now knows to be the rest of the tofu onto a cutting board and begins to chop it into perfectly uniform bite-sized pieces. 

Potter moves around the kitchen with the same kind of grace he exhibits when duelling—his movements exuding a sort of poise that's nearly impossible to look away from—as if Potter is most himself only when in action. At other times, while sitting at his desk doing paperwork or even over a pint at the pub, Potter always seems too alert, as if waiting for _something_ to happen. But now, despite all of Potter’s protestations that he hates cooking, he is remarkably free of the kind of self-doubt that Draco knows often plagues him. 

Time seems to stand still as Draco leans his elbows on the table, chin in his upturned hands as he watches Potter dump the tofu into the skillet, listening to the sounds it makes as it sizzles and splatters. It’s almost hypnotic, watching Potter cook. He eventually removes the tofu to a plate.

“Can’t believe there’s no bloody onions for this,” Potter mutters to himself, pursing his lips as if in deep thought as he lifts up different jars of unlabelled spices and sniffs them before adding generous amounts of several of them into the leftover oil in the skillet. Potter grabs a whisk from a drawer, stirring the spices in a steady circular motion, his wrist movements as elegant as when he casts a spell, until the spices and oil join in a thick paste. The savoury and familiar aromas of curry fill the kitchen as Potter lifts the tin from beside the stove to slowly pour in the rest of the tin of the same milk he’d put in Draco’s coffee that morning, whisking it again until the milk and spices have blended into an enticing golden yellow sauce.

Draco had always assumed cooking would be a lot like potion-making. Not that he’d ever bothered to attempt it himself to find out if his hypothesis was correct; he’d never needed to. As a child the house-elves had seen to every meal or snack, and of course while at Hogwarts there’d been no need to think about where food came from. Living alone for the first time once he’d been accepted into the Aurors had been the first time he’d been on his own in terms of food, and Draco had lived on takeaway for nearly a fortnight before his mother had discovered what he was doing and sent Mimsy, his favourite house-elf, to look after him. He’d protested at his mother’s meddling but truthfully had been rather thankful to wake up to a hot meal every day and to know one would be waiting for him after long hours spent training or at work. 

But watching Potter cook now, Draco can see that potion-making is absolutely nothing like cooking. Where potion-making is precise, methodical, and structured, cooking seems to be based on both experience and instinct. Potter isn’t following a recipe; in fact, he isn’t even measuring ingredients or watching the time to see how long something cooks. Potter doesn't need to be told what to do, he simply knows, and Draco finds it not at all surprising that Potter would be good at something tangible, something he can do with his hands and watch come to fruition—something based on intuition and skill rather than the ability to follow instructions.

Once the sauce has begun to boil Potter reaches for the tofu, dumping it back into the skillet and stirring it until all the pieces are coated in the sauce before turning the knob on the stove down.

“It needs to simmer for a while,” Potter says, moving to sit down into the empty chair at the table.

“If I ask where exactly you learned to cook like this, are you going to throw another bag of beans at me?” Draco asks, his curiosity overflowing. In all the time he’s spent with Potter, he’s never once entertained the idea that Potter might be hiding secret cooking abilities. He desperately wants to know where Potter learned, why he doesn’t cook, and even more so, why he won’t talk about it.

Potter scrunches up his nose and sighs heavily. “Can’t. There’s no more beans left.”

“Right.” Draco isn’t sure if he’s joking or not. “So—”

“So,” Potter echoes, tapping his fingers on the table.

Draco’s stomach flips uncomfortably as if twisted in knots again, the quiet sounds of the food bubbling on the stove mingling with the _tap, tap, tap_ of Potter’s fingers. There’s a nervous energy surrounding Potter, so subtle most people would miss it. But most people aren’t Draco, most people aren’t Potter’s _partner_ , Potter’s _friend_ —most people don’t know Potter the way Draco does. Draco wishes fervently that the food were done so he’d have something to do besides stare at Potter and want things he shouldn’t want.

“Made a lot of curry, have you?” Draco asks abruptly, deciding it was a mildly safe question.

“Enough.” Potter shrugs, his voice tight as he clasps his hands together. Draco thinks he rather prefers the obnoxious tapping sound to the quiet tension currently radiating off Potter, his knuckles turning white as he squeezes his hands together.

“You know, if you don’t want to talk about it, you just have to say so,” Draco snaps, his own nerves just as shot as Potter’s after the last thirty-six-hours. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Potter answers almost immediately, voice clipped tight.

“Fine, then we won’t talk.”

Potter opens his mouth then closes it, pursing his lips before dropping his eyes from Draco’s face to his own hands. They sit like that in silence for long minutes until Potter finally shoves his chair back from the table, the wooden legs squeaking on the floor loudly.

“It’s almost done,” Potter proclaims as he peers into the skillet. Draco isn’t sure if Potter is talking to himself or to Draco but he finds himself hesitant to answer either way. 

Potter begins to pull down cups and plates, filling the glasses with water and sending them to the table with a flick of his wand. He lifts the lid on the rice, a wave of steam engulfing his face as he nods and sets the lid to the side, grabbing a spoon and stirring it before putting a large mound of the fluffy-looking rice onto each plate. Draco reaches for his water, gulping down half of it in one go, his throat parched and his heart racing as he watches Harry lift the skillet, spooning chunks of tofu onto the plate followed by the rich sauce that he pours all over the rice. The smell is intoxicating and heady, and as the plate comes sailing across the room to land in front of him, Draco allows his eyes to fall shut as he leans forward and inhales the spicy scent. For a moment Draco forgets where they are, forgets why things are so tense—lets himself momentarily forget that Potter’s reluctance to share more of himself is all Draco’s fault.

When he finally opens his eyes again it’s to find Potter watching him. Potter blinks before looking away, a red flush on the high ridges of his cheekbones.

“It would be better if I’d had fresh garlic and onion. And naan. Curry is a bit shit without naan.” It’s an olive branch and Draco is smart enough to take it.

“Everything's better with naan,” Draco agrees.

Potter lets out a soft snort and some of Draco’s tension seeps away at the sound. This is fine. They’re fine. Everything’s going to be fine. It has to be.

“I promise it tastes better than the pot noodles.”

“Merlin’s beard, you’re not setting the bar very high are you?”

Potter barks out a laugh and Draco’s stomach flutters for an entirely different reason this time. Potter’s eyes are bright—expectant, almost—as he watches Draco reach for his fork. Draco does his best to pretend that Potter’s gaze does not simultaneously make him want to Apparate directly to the Sahara Desert and also pull Potter against his body and never let go. He scoops up the first bite and puts it in his mouth. It’s certainly not as good as the curry from their favourite place near Draco’s flat, but it’s good. Really good. The tofu is surprisingly crisp and chewy on the edges, complemented by the rich and spicy sauce. Draco scoops up a bigger bite this time, savouring the textures and flavours before daring to look at Potter, who has for some reason attacked his own plate and mashed it all up into an unpalatable looking lump of goop, as if offended by his own food.

“Awfully unsportsmanlike of you to attack the curry when it can’t fight back. Isn’t that against the Gryffindor code of honour or something?”

Potter looks up guiltily, trying for a laugh that sounds tinged with bitterness as he drops his fork to his plate and rubs his hands over his face. “I haven’t made curry in years.”

Draco takes a slow breath as he waits for Potter to say more, careful not to make too much noise as he sets his own fork down on the table, his curiosity overriding his hunger. “Did you used to make curry a lot?” He supposes if Potter brought it up first, it’s safe to ask now.

“My aunt taught me how to cook.” Potter licks his lip before blowing out a breath. He looks so young—so defenceless—and Draco finds the urge to hug him nearly overwhelming. He’s grateful there’s a table between them to stop him from his ridiculous impulse. Potter’s not perfect, far from it, but he’s always strong, always confident, and this show of vulnerability makes Draco feel like the rug has been pulled from underneath him as he grapples with the reality of the emotional line they’re on the cusp of crossing.

“The first time I made curry I was seven.” Potter’s voice is even, unaffected, but his hands tremble as he reaches out to wrap them around his water glass, pulling it towards him. “My aunt told me that I was old enough to start making myself useful, that I was old enough to make up for all the trouble I caused.” Potter lifts the water to his mouth and gulps down a drink, several drops of it slipping down the side of his mouth. “I burned the curry that first time. I didn’t make that mistake again.”

Draco feels sick to his stomach as the rumours of Potter’s childhood he’d grown up hearing at Hogwarts rush to the forefront of his mind—whispers of neglect and unkindness—rumours other students had passed around like emotional currency to gain favour or attention, without caring whether they were true or not. At eleven years old Draco had assumed the rumours were simply a means to endear people to Potter, to earn him sympathy. Instead of earning him Draco’s sympathy, however, it had merely earned him more contempt. As Draco got older, other matters had occupied his mind and he’d simply forgotten, pushed the rumours to the back of his mind. Once he and Potter became partners, well sure, Draco had thought about them from time to time, but it was easy enough to make himself forget when it was so obvious Potter didn’t want to talk about them, and Draco had found himself reluctant to ever do anything that might destroy the fragile threads of friendship they were weaving. 

In fact, Potter never talked about his childhood at all, about anything to do with his life before Hogwarts. Potter always spoke of his past as if he’d simply sprung into existence at age eleven moments before boarding the Hogwarts Express. Potter would always close himself off during any of the rare few times anyone tried to ask about it, his shoulders tensing as he deflected questions and skilfully changed the subject. Draco knew if anyone could get Potter to talk about it, it would probably be him, but he’d never tried, instead letting Potter lead the conversation his own way. Draco had always told himself it was because he was respecting Potter’s boundaries—but the truth was it was easier for Draco to not know, easier for Draco to let there be at least a few things unsaid between them. It was not, he could now admit, just about letting Potter keep his distance, but about keeping his own.

“I was always on cooking duty. Well, _almost_ always.” He laughs hollowly. “Unless it was for Vernon’s work, and then I was locked up in the cupboard—”

“ _Cupboard_?” Draco all but snaps before he can think better of it. 

Potter averts his eyes, looking anywhere but at Draco as he speaks. “The cupboard where I slept.” His voice is as tight as Draco’s chest.

Draco closes his eyes, willing away the anger and confusion and pity swirling inside of him, knowing those are the last things Potter probably wants to see. 

“Why?” he croaks. 

“Probably afraid if I breathed on the food they were supposed to serve Vernon’s bosses I might spread my unnaturalness to them.” He says it in a way that leaves no question in Draco’s mind that some part of Potter believed it to be true.

Little things Draco had noticed about Potter over the years suddenly make sense. Things he’d filed away merely as Potter’s idiosyncrasies seem to slot into place like missing puzzle pieces with whole new meanings—the types of reactions Potter has had to cases involving children, his staunch avoidance of talking about his own childhood, or his trust issues. Draco finds it hard to breathe with the weight of his rage at the Muggles who hurt Potter at war with his desire to remain calm, to show Potter he is someone he can trust with the parts of himself he hides from everyone else.

“No, I meant why did you sleep in a cupboard?” Draco asks, inordinately pleased with his ability to keep his voice calm. He picks up his fork and stabs a piece of tofu with more force than is strictly necessary while imagining it is Potter’s relatives he’s spearing. He’s not at all hungry anymore, but he needs to do _something,_ so he puts the food in his mouth and forces himself to chew, unable to taste a thing.

“Oh.” Potter sighs, mimicking Draco’s action and taking a bite of his own food. He chews slower than Draco, exhaling when he’s done. “They had plenty of room, well, physically. Emotionally not so much. I think by putting me in the cupboard it was easier to forget they were supposed to care about me. I think maybe if they thought I didn’t think I deserved anything, it was easier for them to believe it too. Dudley got everything and they made sure I got what I deserved, which was, well, nothing.”

“Potter—”

Potter shrugs, cutting him off. “They just didn’t want me. I mean, it's fine.” He grips his fork tighter, and the plates rattle on the table before Potter takes a steadying breath, blowing it out slowly before speaking again, the cutlery and plates no longer at risk of smashing against the wall. “I’m a lot to deal with.”

Potter’s tone is so matter-of-fact it’s somehow more painful than any bitterness or anger or even sadness might have been. ”I’m sure that’s not true.”

Potter looks up from his plate, his lips squeezed together in a tight line. “It’s true.”

Draco doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s no stranger to the painful reality that some families’ love is not unconditional, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. He thinks of the insults he’d thrown at Potter back then, of the way he’d ridiculed his upbringing and made fun of the fact that he had no family. The shame burns bright, dulled only by the force of Potter’s voice when he starts speaking.

“It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.” Draco’s not sure which one of them Potter is trying to convince.

“You matter, Potter.” His voice sounds shaky even to his own ears. He’s almost surprised by the conviction his voice holds, but he’s unwilling to imagine a world in which Potter doesn’t matter. 

“Fuck me. I need something stronger than water if we’re going to do this,” Potter groans, dropping his face into his hands. There is rawness in Potter’s voice that Draco’s not sure he’s ever heard before.

“The curry isn’t completely abysmal, you know,” Draco says, trying to give Potter an easy out from their conversation if he wants it, taking another bite of his food and watching Potter out of the corner of his eye.

“Thanks for the high praise,” Potter mumbles, removing his hands from his face to peer at Draco again. His eyes are watery, and he scrubs at them uselessly with the heels of his hands, but all that does is make them look even more red. Draco’s heart clenches painfully at the sight. He hates every person who has ever made Potter feel as if he were insignificant—himself included.

“I mean, I wouldn't want your ego to get too big. This house is barely big enough for the both of us as it is. Imagine how big your head would get if I told you that the food was incredible and I’m in awe of you.” 

Draco means it to sound a bit like a joke, a way to pass off the truth without the responsibility of having to actually say it. But Potter’s fork drops to his plate with a resounding clatter as he looks up at Draco—a question in his eyes that Draco isn’t at all prepared to answer.

“Did I mention the curry is good?” Draco mumbles, seconds before shoving a too-big bite of it into his mouth. He feels like an inelegant twat who’s lost all ability to make normal conversation, but then again Potter’s always had a way of making Draco feel stripped bare without even trying. Draco’s pretences of politeness are always rendered useless by Potter’s presence. 

“You did.” Potter looks almost amused now, finally eating his curry and watching Draco. There’s something different in the air.

“Is that why you don't like to cook, then?” Draco asks, unable to take his eyes off the movement of Potter’s fingers as they glide through his hair, one stray curl stuck behind his glasses. Potter blinks, his long eyelashes fluttering against the curl.

“Yeah. I mean—fuck.” Potter swallows. “I just hated them for so long. You can't imagine what it's like to grow up and know how unwanted you are, what a burden you are. And I just thought, well this is my normal. I’d never had anyone love me before, well not that I could remember. It was almost easier to handle before I went to Hogwarts and learned about my parents and everything I’d lost, everything I could’ve had.” Potter pauses, rubbing his cheek and staring at the far wall behind Draco. “I mean other kids at primary didn't seem to get treated the way I did, but I was used to it, you know. It was all I’d ever known. But then I went to Hogwarts and everything changed. I was away from the Dursleys, and maybe it's fucked up, but even with Voldemort trying to kill me I’ve still never been happier than I was when I was there.”

Draco tries to imagine a world where being hunted by a dark wizard and made into a pariah by the wizarding world could still be preferable to being with one's own family and finds himself not at all hungry anymore. 

Potter continues speaking, still not looking at Draco. “After the war I tried to cook a few times. I mean I had to, didn’t I? But every time it was like I was eight years old again and waiting to be scolded for burning something.” His voice lowers, so quiet Draco can barely hear the next words he speaks. “I don’t like the way it makes me feel.”

Draco doesn’t have words to articulate his feelings, the swirl of sadness at Potter’s revelation or the gratefulness that Potter pushed it aside to cook for them now.

“Thank you, Potter.”

Potter looks surprised, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth and shrugging. “S’nothing.”

It’s everything, Draco thinks, but he doesn’t say it. The silence that falls over the table after is different, intimate almost.

He watches Potter across the table, takes in the gentle slope of his nose, which is slightly crooked, and the two freckles beneath his left eye. Allows himself to really look at Potter’s face, the high cheekbones and thick eyebrows as his eyes trail down Potter’s strong jaw and the long line of his neck as he swallows his food. He looks at the slow rise and fall of Potter’s chest as he eats, comfortable and at ease with Draco even after the revelations he’s just made. Draco takes in the scars on the back of Potter’s hands as he grips his fork and the calluses on his fingertips. Draco can still recall a time when he looked at Potter and saw the things he wasn’t, and now all he can do is look at Potter and see all of the things he _is_.

It’s not just that they’re partners, or even that they’re friends. It’s something else—it’s something _more_. Potter likes Draco, trusts him. Looking at Potter sitting there in his sleep rumpled t-shirt with his crooked smile, at the way he lets all his guards down around Draco, Draco knows the truth—knows no matter how much he might try to deny it, he cares about Potter. A lot.

Draco closes his eyes, tries to picture Potter as a child; he tries to imagine the way he must’ve looked when he realised how his relatives felt about him. He tries to imagine what Potter looked like the moment he realised he wasn’t wanted. 

He imagines it probably looked a lot like Potter looked the night before the raid.

Fuck, Draco hates himself.

****

***~*~***

**2nd October 2002 - 9:49 pm**

Draco sighs heavily, dropping his head into his hands and massaging his temples. He’s got a wicked headache and is so tired the words on the page in front of him are starting to bleed together.

“Maybe we should call it a night, Malfoy.”

“No,” Draco says firmly, lifting his head from his hands to look at Potter. He looks about as bad as Draco feels—his hair is an absolute disaster, thick waves falling into his eyes, which are sleep hooded and lined with dark circles. “The raid is tomorrow. We need to know what we’re getting into.”

Potter shakes his head but thankfully doesn’t argue, dropping his stack of papers onto the dining room table and pushing his chair out. “Fine, if we’re seriously going over these fucking notes again, then I need something to keep me awake.”

Potter moves across the kitchen without preamble, comfortable in Draco’s home as if it were his own, mumbling to himself about slave-driver partners as he goes straight to the cabinet above the stove where Draco keeps the teacups. He reaches first for the abhorrent Gryffindor Quidditch mug he keeps in Draco’s cupboard, then pulls out one for Draco—his favourite dark green bone china teacup—before moving to fill the kettle with a familiar _Aguamenti_. 

“ _Ferveret_ ,” Draco murmurs, tapping the kettle with his wand and watching it spring to an immediate boil. He busies himself making the tea, filling a tray with the two cups of tea, a bowl of sugar, and a packet of McVitie’s milk chocolate digestives, which Draco is absolutely positive was not there last week. Potter is always doing that—leaving food he likes in Draco’s kitchen, his favourite mug in the cupboard right next to Draco's, little remnants of him left in Draco’s home. Even a hideous red and gold striped throw had somehow made its way onto the chair by the fireplace Potter is so fond of, and despite the fact that Draco complains about it loudly whenever Potter comes over, he isn’t at all sorry it is there.

Potter sets the tray on the table, scooping one spoonful of sugar into Draco’s before passing the sugar bowl to him. 

“Thanks,” Draco says, accepting the cup of tea gratefully, blowing on the steam as he watches Potter add three spoonfuls of sugar and a fairly generous amount of milk. The first sip of tea is like heaven, brewed and sweetened exactly the way he likes it, and Draco’s eyes flutter shut as he takes a second drink, allowing its warmth to revive him. When he opens his eyes a moment later, it’s to find Potter watching him, a chocolate biscuit halfway to his mouth and an unreadable expression on his face. He clears his throat, ducking his head and shoving the entire biscuit into his mouth.

“Attractive,” Draco teases, delighting in the way Potter blushes as he flips him off.

Draco busies his mouth by taking another drink of his tea, if only to keep himself from saying more. The third drink is just as good as the first, so he allows himself to take another.

Potter chews quickly, swallowing the biscuit and taking a huge chug of tea before muttering, “Fuck you.”

There’s no vehemence in his words, and something about the way he looks at Draco warms him more than the tea. Draco can’t stop the small bubble of laughter that erupts, his headache already easing.

“Did you put something in my tea?” Draco asks suddenly, comprehension dawning.

Potter’s hand pauses over the package of biscuits and he snatches one more, looking a bit guilty. “Might have.”

“ _Potter_.”

“Oh come on. You were doing that thing where you rub your head. You had a headache and you’re so fucking stubborn I knew you wouldn't take the headache potion and I know I should’ve asked but honestly how the fuck are we supposed to—”

“Thank you,” Draco interrupts. 

Potter looks surprised, his eyebrows rising up into his fringe as he stares at Draco. “You’re not mad?”

Draco is a lot of things—tired, confused, overwhelmed—but mad is certainly not one of them. “No. It’s helping.”

“Oh. Right. Good. That’s good.” Potter drops the biscuit and reaches for his mug of tea, wrapping both his hands around it as he lifts it up and takes a long, slow drink.

Draco’s eyes are riveted to the bob of Potter’s Adam’s apple as he swallows, the line of his fingers overlapping around the deep crimson mug and to the perpetual ink stain on Potter’s pointer finger. Fuck, he almost thinks he preferred the headache, at least then he was focussing on that and not on Potter.

“So,” Draco starts, clearing his throat and picking up his previously discarded notes. “The raid will begin tomorrow at exactly five thirty-two in the evening.” Draco pretends he can’t see Potter rolling his eyes. He doesn’t care that they’ve been over this at least a dozen times tonight already. They can’t afford to not be prepared for this mission. “We will arrive by portkey at the outskirts of Hoboken park, just outside the wards, and then we have to travel the rest of the distance on foot. It’s in an unpopulated area of London, but it’s a Muggle area so we cannot draw our wands until we’re in the park.”

Potter looks like he wants to say something, so Draco reaches for a biscuit and throws it at him. Potter looks torn between annoyance and amusement, apparently deciding on the latter as he pops it into his mouth and rests his chin in hands. Confident Potter will let him finish, he continues to go over the plan.

“Reliable intel tells us that the neo-Death Eaters will be exchanging something of importance at the park. We don’t know what, though McKinnon and Robards seem to think it will only be propaganda.”

“Which makes no sense because why the fuck would they go to all this trouble to exchange some pathetic posters and handouts? I’m telling you something else is going on.”

Draco sighs. They’ve had this argument too many times to count over the last week. “For what it’s worth, you know I agree with you that it doesn’t entirely make sense. But it’s our job to follow orders, and our orders are to follow the mission plan, and the mission plan says to intercept valuable propaganda and to incapacitate and detain any neo-Death Eaters we are able to safely and legally apprehend.”

Potter leans back in his chair, tipping it back until the legs rise off the floor as he crosses his arms over his chest and chews on his bottom lip. 

“What?” Draco asks, knowing Potter’s going to tell him whatever it is he’s thinking anyway. Might as well find out sooner rather than later.

“I just don’t trust the intel. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Do you trust me?”

Potter stops rocking back and forth, the chair nearly tipping backward. He flounders, arms flying out to grab onto the table as he manages to right himself, the legs of the chair slamming loudly onto the tiled floor. “What?” he croaks. 

“I said do you trust _me_?”

Potter’s tongue darts out, his head bobbing up and down in agreement. “You know I do.”

Draco’s chest tightens at Potter’s easy admission. He’d known it was true, how could he not? But knowing Potter trusts him, and hearing it said with such utter conviction, without an ounce of hesitation, are two entirely different things, and Draco is wholly unprepared for the onslaught of emotions. 

“Then that’s all that matters, Potter. We’re partners. Whatever happens, we’ve got each other’s backs.”

“Partners,” Potter echoes, eyes still on Draco. Draco can practically feel the questions. “ _Malfoy_.”

There’s something in his voice, something Draco recognises immediately, because he feels it himself—desire. But unlike Potter, Draco is content to lock his feelings away lest they become unhinged and dangerous. 

The bottom of his stomach drops, and Draco pushes away from the table before he knows what he’s doing. “I uh—I need more tea,” he mumbles, stalking to the stove and tapping the kettle to make it re-boil with a quiet _Feveret_.

Draco hears Potter’s chair scraping on the floor, hears feet padding across the floor, before he feels Harry’s presence beside him.

“Malfoy,” Potter tries again, and fuck it all, he’s so close. _Too close_. The heat from Potter’s body is intoxicating, infusing Draco’s entire body with warmth despite the fact that they’re not even touching. Draco craves that potential touch as much as he fears it.

“Tea. I’m making tea,” he says uselessly. 

“Look at me. Please.” 

Draco’s hands grip the edge of the marble countertop so hard his knuckles turn white.

“ _Draco_.”

And that does it. Draco’s hands slip off the counter and his feet turn of their own accord. He can’t resist the sound of his name falling from Potter’s lips for the first time. The way Potter’s entire tone of voice shifts, as if Draco’s name means something.

“Potter,” Draco breathes.

Potter is so close, close enough Draco could have him in his arms if he reached out. He doesn’t.

“Draco,” he says again, his hand coming out to cup the side of Draco’s face. Draco can feel the weight of the unspoken words between them—all the not-so-casual touches and flirting over the last few months coming to a head. It’s only Draco's name, but it means so much more and it terrifies him.

Potter’s fingers are warm, the pads of his fingertips surprisingly soft as they caress the side of his face. Draco knows he should pull away, knows he needs to stop this before it goes too far, but he can’t. Draco has spent years mastering his self-control, but he is only human, and even he has his limits. So instead of doing the safe and sensible thing he leans into the touch, barely keeping his eyes on Potter’s as Potter’s thumb strokes across his cheek. Then Potter leans closer, his own eyes fluttering shut as his mouth moves towards Draco’s, and something in Draco breaks.

“No,” he chokes out, stepping back—stepping out of reach. Draco collides with the counter and welcomes the cold, hard surface digging into his lower back, a startling contrast to the warmth and softness of Potter’s touch. It’s not as if he’s surprised, not completely. He and Potter have grown impossibly close the last few months, their touches no longer casual and their flirting no longer teasing. And yet all the same Draco can’t help but feel unprepared for the line Potter is trying to cross. 

Draco isn’t stupid, he knows exactly what Potter means to him— _everything_ —but the idea of acknowledging that terrifies Draco. As if admitting what Potter means to him—what they mean to _each other_ —makes it all the more real, which only makes the idea of losing it unbearable. Draco thinks perhaps he can live without Potter as his lover, even if he sometimes feels like he might die from wanting him, but he doesn’t think he could live without him as his friend. 

Potter’s eyes snap open, a look of such confusion and hurt passing across his face Draco’s chest viscerally aches from knowing he was the one to put it there.

“We can’t do this,” Draco whispers.

“Why not?” He takes one step closer to Draco, his hand outstretched again, but Draco shakes his head and Potter stops, dropping his hand to his side.

“We’re partners. _Friends_. That’s all.” He can’t help but wonder, if he says it confidently enough, would it feel more like the truth?

“You’re lying,” Potter spits out, the hurt transforming into something else, a fierce determination. He’s got that look on his face he gets before meetings with McKinnon or Robards, the same look he gets before speaking out of turn at interdepartmental meetings or arguing with Weasley and Finnigan in the tea room—a look that very clearly says _I know I’m right_.

“I think you should go home. Get some sleep. We need to be ready for the raid tomorrow.”

Potter’s shoulder’s tense. “Right. The mission.” That look is there again on Potter’s face—like a kicked crup—and Draco can’t bear to see it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Potter.”

Draco turns around, away from Potter, away from the disappointment in his eyes.

Potter doesn’t say goodbye, and Draco doesn’t watch him leave. He keeps his hand on the tea kettle as the Floo flares to life behind him.

When he finally turns around, there is nothing left of Potter but a half-drunk mug of tea and a package of his favourite biscuits on the table. His absence weighs on Draco the rest of the night like the gloomy residue of Dark magic.

****

***~*~***

**5th October 2002 - 7:19 pm**

“Do you need any help?” Draco asks, gathering up his empty plate and cup and following Potter to the sink. After Potter’s confessions, the rest of the meal had passed by without many words uttered, but it’d not been awkward or stilted. Rather, Draco had felt a sort of comfort in the quietness between them that he’d not experienced before. He was used to both of them filling any stillness with words, with actions, and it’d been surprisingly _nice_.

Potter drops his plate into the sink, the glasses clanking loudly against the sink basin before he turns back around, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest as he surveys Draco appraisingly. “You never struck me as someone who would do the washing up.”

“Well, you never struck me as someone who could cook. Sometimes people can surprise you.”

Truthfully, Draco’s never actually done the washing up, not even once, but Potter doesn’t need to know that. He’s used a cleaning charm enough times in his life to know how it works. He’s certain if he can clean muck and blood out of his Auror robes, he can certainly manage to spell away bits of rice and curry.

Potter laughs at that, the sound echoing, lifting his hands in defeat and taking a step back. “Be my guest. Let’s see what you’ve got, Malfoy.”

Draco clears his throat, willing away the fluttering sensation in his chest as he nudges Potter with his elbow. “Give me some room, you absolute menace.”

Potter snorts, scooting over a few inches and arching an eyebrow at Draco, as if daring him to ask him to move more. Fucking Potter, always having to make everything a battle—a challenge—or maybe the fault fucking lies with _Draco_ for liking it so damn much it scares him sometimes.

“A little more room, please,” Draco says flatly, refusing to let Potter’s watchful eyes rattle him. It’s only some dirty plates and cups, for fuck’s sake. Draco’s spent years learning how to stay calm in tense situations.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” Potter says. He doesn’t sound the least bit sorry. “Am I distracting?” Potter asks, eyes bright as he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth. Draco’s eyes are drawn to Potter’s mouth, to the way his bottom lip is fuller than the top one and to the way the pink flesh looks being pulled between Potter’s white teeth.

“Not in the least,” Draco’s mouth says while his brain screams _YES_ — _yes Potter, every single thing about you is distracting._ “Now could you kindly give me a little bit more room.”

“Sure,” Potter says, scooting over half an inch at most. “You gonna do this today?”

Draco narrows his eyebrows. “I understand you’re anxious to catch a glimpse of the perfection that is my spell work, but do try to show at least a small amount of self-restraint and patience, Potter.”

Potter’s mouth scrunches into a thin line as he bites back a laugh, scooting over another few inches and shoving his hands into his pockets. Of course, this doesn’t really help, since Potter does it with such force he tugs his jeans down so far that Draco can see the line of his boxers and the trail of thickening hair below it.

Fucking hell, Draco is losing his mind. Outside of the house things had seemed so clear, so easy to define. Potter was his partner and his friend. Wanting more than that was illogical and dangerous. It didn’t matter if a very large part of him had wanted to kiss Potter because Draco had learned long ago that wanting something didn’t mean you should have it or that you deserved it. Yes, he wanted Potter, but there was too much at stake, too much to lose. But now stuck here, without any distractions, Draco finds the reasons they shouldn’t be together as flimsy as the bloody worn jeans Potter is wearing.

“Today?” Potter intones. He shifts his hips, crossing his feet and leaning back. He’s all loose limbs and casual confidence and Merlin, is it intoxicating.

Draco averts his eyes, holding his wand with a bit more force than is really necessary as he casts an especially strong cleaning charm on the dirty plates. He doesn’t pause to look at Potter, instead doing the same to the rice pan and the skillet, his magic ghosting across the surface of the counters and the table until everything is spotless.

“Not terrible, Malfoy. I’ve got to say I am impressed,” Potter says with a cheeky grin, pulling his right hand out of his pocket and gesturing towards the living room with his thumb. Draco’s eyes are immediately drawn to Potter’s bitten-down nails and the ink smudge on the inside of his forefinger. “So, do you want to play another game?”

Draco does not want to play another game of Exploding Snap. In fact, he’d rather watch paint dry or listen to another one of Granger’s lectures at the Ministry about Auror productivity and morale being related to equality in and out of the workplace. No, what Draco wants is to get out of this bloody safehouse and go home where he can think straight, to get away from Potter’s laugh and his smile and his voice and the fact that sometimes Draco can quite literally feel the strength of Potter’s magic making his skin tingle—wants to go somewhere where the sheer force of Potter’s fucking _everything_ —is not assaulting Draco’s sensibilities every second of the day, because when there is no escaping Potter, there is certainly no escaping his feelings; there is no escaping that Draco is completely and utterly in love with Harry fucking Potter.

“Why not,” Draco says, swallowing down his feelings. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

An unreadable look flashes across Potter’s face and Draco would almost swear he looked _hurt_ , but the look is gone as quickly as it appeared as Potter hunches his shoulders and shoves his hand back into his pocket as he makes his way into the living room. Draco follows behind him silently, the sounds of their feet pattering across the floor as they make their way to the sofa. Potter takes up his usual spot in the corner, curling his feet beneath him and reaching for the deck of cards.

“Best two out of three?” he asks, grabbing half of each deck and turning his thumbs inwards to shuffle the cards backwards. Potter is the only person Draco has ever seen to do it that way and every time he’s done it Draco’s eyes are glued to the movement of the cards, his ears hyper-focused on the whooshing sound the cards make as Potter shuffles them—fixated on all of the seemingly insignificant but noticeable ways in which Potter is unlike anyone else Draco has ever known.

“Alright then,” Draco agrees easily.

Best two out of three turns into best five out of six, which then turns into best seven out of eight, and after nearly three hours Draco is close to using _Incendio_ on the deck of cards lest he have to play one more game. Not even the thrill of beating Potter several times is enough to entice him to keep playing. In fact, Draco is utterly sure he can now go the rest of his life without ever playing another round of Exploding Snap ever again.

Potter, without saying a word, flicks his wrist and Draco watches with no small amount of jealousy at Potter’s casual display of wandless magic as one of the books comes flying off the bookshelf towards Draco.

“You can’t be serious,” Draco says, picking up the copy of _Exploding Snap and Towering Toodles: Games for the Bored Witch or Wizard_. “This book is meant for _children_.”

Potter arches an eyebrow—a move he’d adopted from Draco not long after they’d become partners, the absolute wanker—his bright eyes watching Draco as he leans over and plucks the book from Draco’s hands, flipping it open to the first chapter. “Did you have a better idea?” 

“Well, not at this precise moment I don’t.”

“Right then, we’re doing this,” Potter says confidently, as if there can be no arguing. Potter’s mouth opens, his tongue snaking its way out as he lifts his hand and drags his pointer finger along it before using his spit-moistened finger to turn the stuck pages. Draco’s mouth goes impossibly dry.

“Chapter one,” Potter says, dramatically clearing his throat to ensure Draco is paying attention to him—but really, when the hell isn’t he?—and adopting an exaggeratedly pompous voice, “Evelyn Enders’ enchanted weaving: How to braid bracelets and finagle friends.”

“I would rather wrestle a dragon than make friendship bracelets. Besides, that’s not even a game! Honestly, who the hell wrote this book, anyway?”

Potter stretches out his long legs across the length of the sofa to poke Draco’s thigh with his foot. “Spoilsport.”

“I am no such thing,” Draco says, not bothering to swat away Potter’s foot, which is now wedged between the lumpy cushion and Draco’s thigh. “I just refuse to let boredom change me, and I am not the type of person to sit and do _that_. I don’t care how long we’re stuck in this house, I am not knitting us matching jumpers or making matching friendship bracelets or—”

Potter’s mouth turns up in the corner, his amusement contagious. “Or we could play truth or dare?”

“Seriously? Isn’t that a party game?”

Potter shrugs his shoulders as he continues to flip through the pages, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. He’s pretending to look at the book, but Draco knows him well enough to know he’s not. “Not like we have anything better to do.”

“It doesn’t sound very high stakes with only two of us playing.” Draco doesn’t add his biggest thought—that he’s terrified one of them might actually pick dare.

Potter leans back into the corner of the sofa, his arms crossed over his chest and his t-shirt hitched up in the corner to reveal a small patch of skin at his stomach. Even more distracting, however, is the fact that from the way Potter has shifted, his shirt has stretched awkwardly to the side, the neck tugged askew to show off Potter’s sharp collarbone. Draco does his best not to imagine what it would feel like to drag his fingers—or worse his tongue—along the hollow there. 

“We could try out one of the other games in here if you really want, or—”

“No, let’s play truth or dare,” Draco interrupts, not sure it’s the wisest thing he’s said but unable to regret the choice. He can think of a million reasons to do anything _except_ give away more pieces of himself to Potter, and only one reason to do it. It’s just that when that one reason is Potter himself, it eclipses everything else until Draco knows it’s not even a choice at all.

Potter nods, snapping the book shut and tossing it almost too casually atop the coffee table. He shrugs his shoulders, adjusting his shirt until most of his collarbone disappears beneath the collar of the soft grey cotton. “So who should go first?” Potter asks, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt.

“I’ll start. Truth or dare?”

Potter catches his tongue between his teeth, pushing the hair off his face as if weighing his answer. “Truth,” he says without an ounce of hesitation.

“Why don’t you want to cut your hair?” Draco asks, surprised at the speed with which the question falls from his lips.

Potter seems almost surprised by the question, scooting back on the sofa and pulling his legs close to his body as he wraps his arms around them and rests his chin on his knees, eyes focused on Draco. “I just...want something no one else has any control over. I know I can’t stop people gawking at me, writing about me, taking my photo. I can’t stop people looking, but I can control what they see.”

Draco nods, mimicking Potter’s posture by pulling his knees to his chest and understanding quite acutely the desire simply to take up less space. “Your turn,” he says softly.

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Draco answers as well, not at all brave enough for a dare.

“Why did you get mad at me for trying to save you during the raid?”

Draco holds back a sigh, his gut twisting. He knew Potter wouldn’t hold back if they played this bloody game. A small part of him thinks he probably would’ve been disappointed if he had. “You make me fucking crazy, you know that. Aside from the fact that I’m perfectly capable of handling myself I, _fuck_ —I can’t stand that even after all this time you still think you’re more expendable than everyone else.”

“That’s... _oh_ ,” Potter whispers. “That’s unexpected.”

Draco coughs, rubbing at his face. “What’s the first thing you want to eat when we get out of here?” 

If Potter is surprised by the change in the direction of the questions, or the fact that Draco bypassed the option of the dare completely, he hides it well. 

“Fish and chips from that place around the corner near your flat. With extra salt and vinegar. Oh, and a beer.”

“Seriously, Potter. Anything in the world you could eat and that’s what you’d pick? Greasy food from the chippy on the corner? Why?”

“It’s not your turn to ask another question,” Potter laughs. “What do you want to eat?”

“Something better than that, that’s for sure. I want the chicken and risotto from that place we ate at a few months ago when we were undercover at that Muggle restaurant that Robards thought was smuggling illegal potions. You know, the one in Brighton with the homemade bread rolls. Remember you ate so many you had to unbutton your jeans and you were licking the butter off your fingers and—” Draco clamps his mouth shut as if realising he’s babbling. 

“If I recall correctly, it was _you_ who ate the last bread roll.”

“Yeah, well, you ate the five before that,” Draco mutters, an unusual warmth spreading across his cheeks at Potter’s infectious smile. “Anyway, it’s my turn so shut your gob.”

Potter holds his hands up with a smile.

“Right,” Draco says, desperately trying to think of a question. He’s not sure how truth or dare turned into let's take turns asking each other truth-baring questions, but when the alternative is so unknown he supposes it could be worse. 

Several choice questions he’s always wanted to ask Potter come to mind; he’s never asked them because he knew he wasn’t prepared to deal with the answers. “Why don’t you do wandless magic in front of anyone but me?”

This time Potter either can’t or doesn’t care to bother hiding his surprise. Potter’s eyes are bright, blinking at Draco as if Potter could see right through him. It’s almost unnerving the way Potter doesn’t flinch away from eye contact. 

“I trust you,” he says not a moment later.

Draco sucks in a shuddering breath. He’d known it. Of course he’d known it. Every single thing Potter does makes it clear how much he trusts Draco with the parts of himself he trusts to no one else, but knowing it and hearing it are two entirely different things. Draco feels himself moving before he can think twice; he’s on his knees and crawling across the couch until he’s just inches from Potter.

Potter, whose chest is rising and falling rapidly as he watches Draco with a mix of hope and apprehension that makes Draco dizzy. It’s exhilarating and terrifying to see, but if this is going to burn and crash, Draco wants to fucking burn.

“Ask me,” Draco whispers, his hand shaking as he reaches out to tuck a stray curl behind Potter’s ear. “ _Ask me._ ”

“Why did you push me away?” Potter asks, closing his eyes as he speaks, as if he cannot bear to watch Draco’s face.

“Because,” Draco whispers, scooting closer until their legs are intertwined and he’s nearly in Potter’s lap. They’re so close his breath ghosts across the high arch of Potter’s cheek when he speaks. “Because you’re like the fucking sun, Potter. You shine so bright no one can take their eyes off of you, me included. I want to bask in you, I want to spend every fucking moment with you and wake up next to you and be disgustingly sappy over breakfast with you and I want to bicker with you and I want to fuck you and I want you to fuck me and I want to protect you the way you’re always protecting me and I just— _fuck_ , I want you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone in my entire life and it absolutely terrifies me.”

“Fuck,” Potter breathes, his hand reaching out to cup the side of Draco’s face. 

Draco’s seen those hands do so many things, seen them do mundane tasks and cast spells other wizards could only dream of, seen them save lives and end them. He’s seen Potter’s hands make miracles, and yet still none of those things come even close to the way they feel gliding across Draco’s cheek, down the side of his throat until they’re sliding into his hair and Potter is cradling the back of his head and not-so-subtly urging him closer.

Potter’s eyes are open now and they’re so big, so earnest, Draco can barely breathe. “So you like me?”

Draco can’t contain his laugh, resting his forehead against Potter’s and nudging Potter’s nose with his own as he brings his lips just an inch or so from Potter’s mouth. “I like you a very normal amount.”

Potter’s lips curl up in a grin. “Normal is overrated,” he whispers. 

For one breath-taking second everything stands still. Draco is immobilized by Potter’s gaze; the depth of Potter’s desire is written so clearly in that gaze that Draco’s not sure how it took him so long to see. 

Potter’s glasses press into Draco’s cheek almost painfully, Potter’s hair falls into Draco’s eyes, and Potter’s heart beats so loud Draco can feel the rhythmic _thump thump_ of it resonating within his own body. 

Once they do this, there is no going back. 

Draco leans forward and Potter lets out a whimper at the contact, surging forward and kissing Draco like he is a dying man and Draco his salvation. Draco tries to keep his own whimper in, to hold back something, _anything_ , but then Potter’s other arm pulls him closer, his tongue gliding along Draco’s bottom lip before deepening the kiss, and fuck, Draco should’ve known it would be like this, should’ve known Potter would kiss like he lives—with every single piece of his heart.

Potter abruptly pulls back, panting, and Draco panics for a terrifyingly long second, afraid something is wrong, but Potter just smiles as he pulls his glasses off his face and tosses them onto the coffee table. 

“In the way,” he says breathlessly, shrugging his shoulders with the smallest hint of embarrassment as he chews on his bottom lip and looks at Draco. His face is flushed and alight with happiness as he reaches up to push the hair out of his face.

“Let me,” Draco murmurs, playfully swatting away Potter’s hand to replace it with his own, a shiver of appreciation coursing through him as he lets his hands glide into Potter’s mess of hair. It’s even softer than it looks, and the strands of wavy almost-curls are impossibly thick as they slide between Draco’s fingers, and all Draco can do is groan because _yes_ , exactly like he’d expected, it’s the perfect length to gently fist his hands into as he pulls Potter in for another kiss.

Potter moves easily, leaning into the kiss and opening his mouth to let Draco in, all of his usual fight and defiance replaced by an easy surrender to the kiss as he so casually offers up his heart to Draco, as if Draco deserves it—as if trusting Draco won’t hurt him. Draco has to close his eyes as he moves his lips against Potter’s, has to kiss Potter even harder to stop himself from screaming _Don’t you see what you’re doing here, Potter? If you offer me everything I’ll take it all._

Potter’s hands slip beneath the hem of Draco’s shirt, the rough skin on the palms of his hands a stark contrast to the hesitant, gentle way he moves them along Draco’s body. 

It’s almost funny, Draco thinks, that he’d worried there would be no going back if they crossed this line, because now all he can think is that he’d like to send a blasting curse at the line to make sure he never sees it again. 

As if Draco could ever want to go back from _this_ , as if there would ever be any return from wanting Potter—touching him, kissing him—from loving him. The idea is as inconceivable as simply not breathing.

Because, fuck, Draco wants it all—wants to live, and Potter is his air.

****

***~*~***

**6th October 2002 - 8:01 am**

Draco is the first to wake the following morning, the sunlight from the enchanted windows near the bed somehow managing to be even brighter and more annoying than the past two mornings combined. It’s not, however, the sunlight that has woken Draco up, but something far more obnoxious. It takes him a few seconds to discover what it is that’s woken him up from a perfectly comfortable slumber—Merlin’s fucking tits, there’s the sound of a very cheerful bird outside the window chirping loudly. Draco groans. It’s as if the bloody house is feeding off their emotions and Draco wants to be grumpy about being woken up by artificial sunlight and enchanted bird noises, but the truth is it's hard to not feel disgustingly, overwhelmingly happy when he turns his head to see the other occupant of the bed.

Potter’s mouth is hanging open and there is a spot of drool on the pillow he’s hugging tightly. Or, _Harry’s_ mouth _,_ he thinks. It should definitely be Harry now, and not because of the clothes they took off last night, but because of the emotional walls they took down. His dark lashes lie on his cheeks, and the lines of worry that Draco had not even realised he carried throughout the day are gone. He looks relaxed— _younger_ somehow—and it takes Draco a moment to orient himself to the reality that not only are he and Harry in bed together, but that they’re together now, that he doesn’t have to simply watch and want—he can _touch_.

Unlike the day before yesterday, when morning Harry’s state of undress had driven Draco near the point of madness, this morning Draco is exceedingly happy about the fact that Harry likes to sleep shirtless, as it means he’s now got a perfect, unobstructed view of Harry’s back. Draco reaches out tentatively, ghosting his fingers lightly across Harry’s sleep-warmed skin. Harry sighs in his sleep, burrowing his face into his pillow but otherwise seems to settle easily, apparently in a fairly deep sleep. 

Confident that he won’t disturb him, Draco allows his fingers to continue along their path, eyes trailed on their movements as they dance across the blooming lilies on Harry’s lower back and down to the roots that disappear just beneath the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. Draco’s fingers continue to move as they glide back up to the tips of the flowers and across the expanse of bare skin until they’re brushing the detailed wings of Harry’s owl before moving back down to briefly caress the mane of the black dog. The line work is impossibly intricate and ornate, and it takes Draco a while to realise that hidden within the tangle of grass and flower stems are other images purposely concealed in the bold design—a small sock in the bottom left corner of the grass, the Deathly Hallows hidden in the owl’s feathers, a sword in the longest lily stem, and what Draco is pretty sure is a potions vial in the fur of the shaggy dog. 

Not for the first time, Draco wonders what other things Harry has kept secret, just waiting for the right person to notice, to ask—waiting for the right person to care.

The tattoo is much like Harry—eye catching and bold. Harry groans softly, stretching out his legs and rolling onto his back. Without opening his eyes, he arches his back in an exaggerated stretch, his arms going over his head and the dip in his stomach fluttering as he inhales deeply. Draco licks his lips as he watches Harry, taking in the pillow lines on his cheek and the way his hair is standing up even more than usual on one side, and especially noticing the way his pyjama bottoms are very nearly falling off, the top of his arse just peeking out as he rolls back onto his stomach with a grunt, turning his head towards Draco and cracking his eyes open. Potter looks a bit like a sleepy crup, and Draco doesn’t bother resisting the sudden urge to reach out and stroke Potter’s hair.

“Morning,” Harry hums contentedly, turning his face down into the bed in a blatant attempt to give Draco access to more of his hair. Bloody crup, indeed. He should’ve known Potter would like that.

“You’re a lot of work first thing in the morning,” Draco teases, glad Harry can’t see the ridiculous smile plastered across his face as his fingers glide through Potter’s hair. Potter hums again, and something deep inside of Draco springs to life. _This_ , he thinks, this is worth every risk. Harry is worth the risk.

Harry says something unintelligible, his voice garbled against the mattress.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak whatever gibberish that is.” Draco’s hands slide out of Potter’s hair and down the line of his spine to rest at his lower back. 

Harry turns his head to the side just so, his mouth falling open as his full lips drag against the cotton sheets. “S’nice,” he says again, voiced still laced with sleep. His eyes remain shut as he wiggles his head wordlessly, urging Draco to continue his ministrations and Draco’s chest contracts almost painfully. Fuck, but he’s disgustingly fond of Harry.

“Demanding wanker,” Draco laughs, his fingers dragging back up Potter’s warm skin and back to his head to glide easily through Harry’s soft locks. Harry lets out a sound of pleasure as Draco drags his fingertips from the base of Harry’s neck all the way up until they make contact with his forehead. Draco uses his nails on the way back down, delighting in the way Potter’s entire body shudders as he drags them against Harry’s scalp down to the base of Harry’s neck. It occurs to Draco now that while Harry might seem to wear his heart on his sleeve, there is still so much beneath the surface that he keeps hidden from almost everyone. Draco has spent years assuming Harry’s bravery cost him nothing, when now it seems painfully obvious that in many ways it had cost Harry everything.

Harry lets out a small groan of appreciation as Draco digs the pads of his fingers into Harry’s head, massaging softly and tugging lightly on Harry’s hair.

“Fuck, can you do that forever?” Harry grunts, beginning to shimmy his hips against the bed.

“Yes, Harry, I definitely plan to leave my career with the Aurors to stay in bed with you and play with your hair full time. I want nothing more than to give you pleasure.”

Harry’s body stills and then he jerks his head out from beneath Draco’s hands, crawling onto his hands and knees. “What did you say?” he asks, looking a bit ridiculous with his bright eyes and tangle of hair falling into his face.

“I was joking, honestly, calm—” but the rest of his words are cut off by Harry pressing his lips to Draco’s with such a force that Draco collapses onto the bed. 

“Say it again,” Harry urges in between kisses, his hands on Draco’s face. 

“I want to do nothing but bring you pleasure,” Draco says, nipping at Harry’s bottom lip with his teeth.

“Not _that_ ,” Harry says dramatically, pulling back to push back the hair that’s fallen onto his forehead. “Say my name.”

 _Oh_. Fuck. Draco hadn’t even realised he’d said that bit out loud. He’d meant to wait, to let the name take hold in his brain before it fell from his mouth. He’d not wanted to scare Harry off, to change everything overnight. Harry doesn’t seem to mind, though, not at all. It’s not like either of them have done anything else conventionally, anyway.

“ _Harry_ ,” Draco whispers, surprised at how good it feels to have that name falling from his lips. 

If Harry’s reaction is anything to go by, then Harry seems to get just as much pleasure from _hearing_ it as Draco does from saying it. Harry’s entire face lights up, a toothy, crinkly eyed smile on his face that’s so genuine it takes Draco’s breath away. Draco is almost ashamed to realise that he’d not noticed that many of Harry’s past smiles never seemed to reach his eyes the way this one does. 

Harry looks younger like this, free and unburdened in a way even Draco rarely gets to see. The weight of their pasts, the war, their trauma, is gone even if only for this moment. They are just Harry and Draco, and it is enough. 

“Harry,” Draco says again as he presses his lips to Harry’s, delighting in the way they curl up against his. Harry sighs into the kiss, his hands fisting loosely in the front of Draco’s cotton sleep shirt.

“Fuck, Draco,” Harry breathes, voice barely above a whisper. It echoes in Draco’s brain as loudly as if were spoken with a _Sonorus,_ and he can't stop himself from grabbing at Harry’s biceps to anchor himself, head spinning and heart racing as he deepens the kiss. Merlin, is this how Harry felt hearing his own name? Overwhelmed and awed and painfully aware of how much he'd never allowed himself to admit he felt for Harry. 

“Draco, Draco, Draco,” Harry murmurs against his mouth, his body warm and pliant as he moves against Draco. Harry's lips are soft, his body hard, as he moves their bodies together as one, hips thrusting down and fuck, Potter is hard beneath his flimsy bottoms, the length of his erection moving against Draco’s. It takes all of his self-control not to beg for more, to beg for all of Potter.

“Fuck, do that again,” Harry groans, tongue slipping into Draco’s mouth as Harry reaches back to put Draco’s hands on his arse again. 

Draco swallows Harry's every sound of contentment and pleasure, getting drunk on the heady sounds falling from Harry’s mouth as he grips Harry’s arse, breathtakingly aware that Potter doesn't have anything on beneath his pyjamas, aware of the undeniable fact that the only thing separating them is a few thin layers of cotton. Draco grips Harry’s arse tighter, urging him to rut against Draco as Draco tries to thrust up against him as much as he can, what with Harry’s weight pinning him to the bed.

All too soon he gasps into Harry’s mouth, fingers digging into Harry’s arse, his release pulled from his body without warning. Harry pauses to watch him and Draco can't recall ever feeling so damn turned on from knowing someone was looking at him, but fuck, Harry’s eyes are wide as they watch him ride out his orgasm, and Draco can’t help but feel as if they are the only people in the world.

“Come,” Draco commands, slipping his hands beneath Harry’s waistband until his cool hands are on Harry’s warm skin.

“Fucking bossy,” Harry groans, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head back as his body starts to move against Draco again, his hips thrusting wildly, and this is what Draco wanted to see—Harry holding nothing back.

“Come for me, _Harry_.” And that is all it takes for Harry to make a choking sound as his hips still, his hands clenching and unclenching against Draco’s biceps, Harry’s nails digging into Draco’s flesh, as he rides the waves of pleasure. Draco continues to stroke Harry’s lower back, unable to keep his hands off the tattoo he cannot see but now has committed to memory along with the sounds Harry makes when he comes.

Harry blinks open his eyes slowly, fixing them on Draco with a lazy smile. The hint of a dimple shows in Harry’s left cheek, and there’s a flush of euphoria on his face as he somehow manages to look both immensely pleased with himself and almost shy about what they’ve just done. It’s an unexpected duality—Harry’s boyish, youthful charm on full force, yet not eclipsed by the aura of power he possesses and the shadows of life experiences no twenty-two-year-old should have had—and Draco knows he could spend the rest of his life doing this, and it would never be enough.

“Hi,” Harry says, the familiar tingle of his magic washing over them as Harry silently casts a cleaning charm. It’s familiar and intimate in an entirely new way and Draco grins, unable to stop himself, pulling Harry down for another kiss. It’s unhurried this time, the slow movement of lips and tongue and contented sighs as Harry breathes into his mouth. Harry’s lips are soft and warm and fuck, Draco could kiss him forever, could live on the feeling of _this_ and this alone. Harry kisses him again, kisses him as if he’s giving all of himself to Draco with every slide of lips and every sigh of pleasure and Draco takes it all, hoarding it in his memory—in his heart.

The tip of Harry’s tongue ghosts into Draco’s mouth, gliding beneath his upper lip and eliciting a sound Draco’s utterly positive he’s never made in front of another person, but he doesn’t have time to feel abashed because Draco’s stomach chooses that precise moment to make its hunger known with an embarrassingly loud growl.

“Hungry?”” Harry asks, laughing as he sucks Draco’s bottom lip into his mouth.

“No,” Draco lies, the palms of his hands flat on Harry’s arse, his heart fluttering with every movement of the muscles quivering beneath his hands. Harry hums into the kiss, his nose pressed into Draco’s cheek as he kisses the corner of Draco’s mouth. Draco’s stomach gurgles even louder this time, and Harry pulls out of the kiss to sit back on his heels, his weight a strange and welcome pressure on Draco’s thighs and knees.

“You sure you’re not hungry?”

“I might possibly be,” Draco admits, the tip of his finger darting into Harry’s belly button. Harry barks out a laugh, his stomach concaving as he jumps. “Wait a minute, are you ticklish?” Draco asks in surprise, watching as Harry crawls backwards until his feet are planted on the floor.

“No,” Harry says confidently, but Draco knows him better than that, knows exactly what Harry looks like when he is lying. There’s a subtle tension in the way he clenches his jaw, and Draco feels the smirk spreading across his face as he sits up, slowing crawling across the bed to kneel in front of Harry.

“Harry James Potter,” Draco starts, the severity of his voice ruined by the smile on his face. Harry’s face lights up in a wicked grin, the tension physically palpable as Harry begins to inch his feet backwards, his smile big enough it looks close to splitting his face in half—the same look he used to get on his face before a training mission when he was sure he was about to win. “I’m going to get you!” Draco yells, unwilling to let Harry think he’s claimed victory already. Harry turns on his heels and begins to sprint down the corridor, his Auror training put to good use as he’s halfway down the corridor before Draco can get off the bed.

Except while Harry might be strong and powerful, but he’s got nothing on Draco’s speed or agility—Draco wasn’t first in their tactile training seminar nine months running for nothing—and it’s only seconds before he’s caught up to Harry, Draco’s fingers connecting with Harry’s waistband as he grabs ahold of him and pulls him backward against his chest. They skid into the kitchen together, a tangle of limbs and laughter. Draco’s fingers move automatically to tickle Harry’s stomach—a spot that turns out to be particularly sensitive, a fact Draco files away for later. Harry lets out a howl of laughter, his pathetic attempts to swat away Draco’s hands half-hearted as best as he turns around to wrap his arms around Draco’s neck. 

“Stop, fuck, I can’t breathe,” Harry gasps, voice shaky but full of mirth as he stands on his toes to close the small height difference between them and drops his forehead against Draco’s.

Draco stops tickling him but doesn’t stop touching him, his hands lingering at Harry’s hips, his thumbs hooked under Harry’s waistband as he moves them back and forth, relishing the warm skin he’s never been allowed to touch before, at least not like _this_. 

“Ready to admit I bested you?” Draco asks.

Harry shakes his head, dropping onto his heels and pressing his face into Draco’s neck. “Never,” he mumbles against Draco’s flushed skin as he rests his head on Draco’s shoulder, his breath hot against Draco’s neck as he breathes heavily.

Draco turns his head to the side to place a kiss atop Harry’s head, closing his eyes and burying his face in Harry’s hair as he inhales the familiar scent of Harry’s favourite shampoo—pine and sandalwood—and tightening his hold, unable to care that he’s being absolutely disgustingly sappy. 

He’s entitled to this happiness, he thinks, they both are. 

“So, are you going to make some miracle happen in the kitchen again?” Draco asks, running his hands up and down Harry’s spine. Harry shrugs, seemingly unwilling to move. “You don’t have to, you know.”

Draco has no idea what they’ll eat if Harry doesn’t, but the awareness of why Harry doesn’t like cooking still weighs heavily on his mind, and Draco doesn’t care how hungry he is, he won’t be the one who makes Harry relive trauma. 

Harry sighs heavily, lifting his head off Draco’s shoulder but not quite meeting his eye. “Yeah, I do. We don’t have anything else to eat, and we have no idea how long we’re going to be in here. We can’t exactly just not eat.”

Draco chews on his bottom lip as he watches Harry pull away, shoulders tense as he begins to gather ingredients and pans, so willing as always to push his feelings away for the greater good. But fuck it all if Draco is going to be a part of the greater good that Harry sacrifices himself for. He can’t help but wonder if Harry’s ever put his own needs before anyone else’s, or if anyone else has ever put Harry’s needs before theirs.

“What do you think about when you cook?” Draco asks.

Harry stops, crouched down to pull a skillet from the bottom cupboard, and turns curious eyes on Draco. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. What do you think about?”

Harry swallows audibly, placing the skillet on the stove and straightening up. “I try not to think, to be honest. I try to focus on the process but...they always creep in, whether I want to think about them or not.”

Harry doesn’t need to say who _they_ are. Everything about his countenance changes, the rapidity of his breathing, the way he holds his shoulders, the quiet confidence he usually carries replaced by an insecurity that deserves no place on Harry’s face.

“Think of me,” Draco says automatically.

“You?” Harry bites his bottom lip, looking at Draco with a kind of hope that Draco wants to be worthy of.

“ _Me_ ,” Draco echoes as he closes the few feet separating them, moving to stand behind Harry, placing his hands on Harry’s hips and his chin on his shoulder. “Teach me. Tell me what you’re doing while you do it. We’re the only two people here, Harry.” He lets the flat palms of his hands drift around until they’re flat on Harry’s stomach, until Harry is securely in his arms. “Think of me.”

“Fuck, I barely think of anything else and I certainly can’t think about cooking when you’re touching me like this.”

Draco laughs, pressing a chaste kiss to the side of Harry’s neck before pulling out of the embrace. He scoots to the side, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back against the counter. “Alright then, show me what you’ve got.”

“Wanker,” Harry mumbles under his breath, looking like he’s trying very hard not to smile.

“Mmm, not yet, but I could be persuaded to show you a bit of wanking later.”

Harry’s arm jerks forward abruptly, the skillet clanking loudly against the stove as he clears his throat, an enticing flush rising on the back of his neck. He turns his head to look at Draco, his bedhead even worse than usual, piled atop his head in ridiculous waves that fall into his eyes—eyes filled with undisguised desire—and this time it's Draco who clears his throat, taking two more steps to the side. Fuck, they’ll never get any food if they keep this up.

“Tease,” Harry mutters, reaching for the jar of rice beside him.

“It only counts as teasing if I don’t plan to follow through, and trust me, Harry, I plan to follow through.”

The blush along the back of Harry’s neck that was starting to fade flares to life, spreading across his shoulders in a gorgeous red hue as he ducks his head and busies himself with tins and spoons. There’s something erotic about the sight, about the knowledge that in bed Harry’s confidence knows no limits, but out here something about his desires rattles him. Draco finds the Harry here, blushing against the stove at the simple mention of wanking, as arousing as the Harry who had stripped them naked last night and touched Draco as if he were born to do so. 

“So, what are you making?” Draco asks, trying to give Harry a reprieve from his embarrassment.

“Beans and rice. It’d be better with fresh—”

“Please tell me we’re not eating the beans you threw at me,” Draco barks out, interrupting. Harry turns his eyes on Draco and they are rife with amusement. The absolute tosspot still doesn’t look sorry. Harry nods. “The beans that were all over the floor.” Draco’s voice continues to rise. “The beans that were in my beard?”

Harry nods again. “I washed them really well.”

“No,” is all he says.

Harry smirks, reaching out to drag two of his fingers down the front of Draco’s beard and Draco inhales sharply, the memory of Potter’s hands there last night making his entire flush with heat. 

“If you’ll recall last night, I’m not afraid to have my mouth on your beard.”

Draco coughs, adjusting his trousers and willing down the beginnings of an erection. “I’m still not eating those beans.” 

Harry pulls his hand back and rolls his eyes. “You are if you want to eat. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“First of all, I never beg,” Draco starts.

Harry’s grin widens, the smug fucker. 

“Fine, maybe I begged a little bit last night,” Draco reluctantly admits, his face flushing at the memory of Harry’s mouth on him. “That’s beside the point! Stop looking so bloody pleased with yourself.”

Harry holds up both hands in mock defeat, but he still looks inordinately pleased with himself. Draco supposes he has every right to look that way considering the way Draco had responded last night, not that Draco’s going to tell _him_ that. Potter looks satisfied enough as it is without Draco telling him it was the best sex of his life.

“Like I said,” Harry continues, reaching for a pot on the back of the stove and lifting the lid off to hold it out to Draco, “we’re having rice and beans.” The beans look different now, a lighter colour and more plump. Harry speaks again as if reading his thoughts. “I collected them all and washed them while you were holed up in the bedroom that first day. Then I cooked them and put them under a stasis charm for later. Dried beans take forever to cook and I thought we might need them.”

Draco nods, not trusting himself to speak. Somehow the idea of Harry in the kitchen cooking alone, with nothing but his negative feelings, while Draco had locked himself away makes his insides burn with guilt. He pushes it aside, inching closer to peer into the skillet, which Harry has drizzled with oil.

“It’d be better with onion and garlic. Oh bugger, and celery, too. Fuck, or anything fresh really, but we’ve got to make do,” Harry says, measuring out some rice and dumping it into the hot skillet. It sizzles loudly and Draco’s eyes never leave Harry’s hands, eyes fixated on his knuckles as he grips the spoon and stirs the rice around in a mesmerizing circle. 

It goes on just like that, Harry narrating his every step as he adds a tin of tomatoes and the cooked beans to the rice, stirring it all together before adding so many dried spices the entire colour of the dish changes as if by magic. 

“And now we wait,” Harry tells him, placing the lid on top of the skillet and lowering the heat.

“Gosh, whatever will we do?” Draco queries teasingly as Harry walks towards him to stand between his spread legs.

Harry’s body is addictively warm, his clothed thighs pressed snuggly against Draco’s as he leans forward to press their chests flush together, their mouths just inches apart as his fingers tangle in Draco’s hair. “I was thinking maybe we could play Exploding Snap.”

“Fuck you,” Draco snorts.

“Or we could do that,” Harry whispers, and despite the confidence in his tone he looks almost unsure, as if Draco might not want that, as if Draco’s entire body isn’t thrumming with so much desire at the idea he’s grateful to be leaning against the counter so he doesn’t fall to the floor.

Before he can answer, the fire in the corner flares to life, a letter shooting into the room and smacking Harry in the side of the hide before the fire goes out as quickly as it came on.

“Open it,” Draco encourages and Harry straightens up, taking a step back and breaking the familiar red wax seal from the Ministry on the back of the letter.

_Bloody hell, Harry. You sure have had the Ministry in a tizzy, you tosspot. Figures you’d be the one to re-activate a non-working safehouse. The entire wizarding world has been in a panic since you disappeared and it took us nearly thirty-six hours before we even figured out where you’d gone to, and even longer to be able to get this letter to you both._

_According to ~~Hermione~~ the Unspeakables, the house is feeding directly off your energy and needs, Harry. You were emitting enough magical power and panic signals to shatter the wards on three other safehouses in London (but don’t worry, everyone is safe). The best we can tell is that the house is keeping you there until _you_ feel safe, until you’re ready to leave. They think it's feeding off your magic, Harry, off your desire to keep you and Draco protected._

_The house won’t let anyone else in, but we’re pretty sure it will let you both out. You just have to be ready._

_-Ron_

_P.S. Say hello to Malfoy._

_P.S.S. You’ve probably got a good hour in there before McKinnon makes me send a second letter, which may or may not end up being a Howler, so put it to good use._

 

Harry takes two steps back, the letter getting crumpled in his hand as he clenches his fist.

“Don’t,” Draco says, moving towards him.

Harry’s head shoots up. “Fuck, I’m sorry. It’s my fault and—”

“I’m not,” Draco interrupts, taking two more strides to close the distance between them before reaching out and pulling Harry into a tight embrace. Harry’s body is tense and Draco can practically hear the thoughts swirling through Harry’s brain—can feel Harry blaming himself for getting stuck here. “I’m not sorry. About any of it.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Harry breathes, the letter fluttering to the floor as he unclenches his hands and wraps his arms around Draco’s waist, burying his face in Draco’s neck.

“If I’m not mistaken, we’ve got less than an hour to ourselves and I do believe we have some wanking and fucking to do.”

Harry’s quiet laughter vibrates through Draco’s body. “What about when we leave?”

“Then we’ll have even more fucking and wanking to do. Just in a far superior bed.”

“Will things change?”

Draco knows exactly what Harry means. He means will Draco change his mind. He means what will happen when they’re back in the real world? He means what about when there are other people around watching them and judging them. What Harry means is what happens when they’re outside of the safety of this place?

“Of course they’re going to change.” Harry tenses but Draco barrels on. “I’m going to keep kissing you and touching you and we’ll probably still bicker all the time, because let’s be real we’re us, and we can’t go twenty-four hours without fighting. But we’ve got a lifetime of memories to make in the kitchen when we leave and you teach me to cook. But if you mean will _this_ change,” Draco whispers, kissing the side of Harry’s head and rubbing his hands up and down his back, “Well then, yeah, it’ll change. But for the better.”

Harry pulls back to look at Draco with eyes full of so much longing it leaves Draco breathless. 

“Good, that’s good,” Harry says, as if he didn’t just wreck Draco’s heart for anyone else ever again with one look. Harry presses his nose into Draco’s cheek, kissing the side of his jaw in an open-mouthed kiss. “I think you said something about fucking.” He trails his fingers down Draco’s chest to dip below the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.

Draco laughs, beginning to walk them both backward towards the bedroom as he pulls Harry with him. “‘Well, I am nothing if not a man of my word. A promise is a promise, after all. Now I do believe Weasley said something about another hour alone.”

Harry’s answering smile makes Draco’s stomach flip, his chest tightening with affection. Fuck, how did he think he could ever live without this?

“An hour isn’t a long time for what I’d like to do to you,” Harry says, voice laced with emotion.

Harry’s words go straight to Draco’s cock, the arousal that was already steadily building flaring to unprecedented proportions, and he can do nothing but pull Potter in for a sloppy kiss as they make their way towards the bedroom, a tangle of hands and lips and unbridled desire.

Harry kisses him again as they stumble through the doorway, yanking Draco’s shirt off roughly and tossing it on the floor before pulling him down onto the bed. Draco laughs breathlessly, bracing his hands on the bed as his chest collides with Harry’s.

Draco lifts his right hand, dragging his knuckles across Harry’s chest and up the side of his neck, uncurling his fingers to slip them into Potter’s hair. Harry’s eyes flutter, threatening to shut as Draco’s nails graze his scalp but he forces them back open, licking his bottom lip and watching Draco.

“I was thinking when we leave, perhaps you could come to mine. Your mug’s already there,” Draco whispers.

Harry’s entire body stills before he surges up, legs and arms wrapping themselves around Draco as he drags him down into a searing kiss.

“Fuck, I—” Harry mumbles, chest heaving as he places open-mouthed kisses across Draco’s cheek and the side of his mouth. Harry’s breath is hot and heavy and Draco’s body shudders as his lips graze across Draco’s beard. “Draco, I—” but he stops, unable to finish the sentence as his fingers tighten on Draco’s hips.

“Me too,” he echoes, thumb grazing the arch of Harry’s cheekbone as he nuzzles their faces together. “Me too, Harry.”

Draco’s not entirely sure what will happen when they leave the security of the safehouse, but as Harry kisses him, their lips and hands and bodies moving together as one, he knows they’ll face it together, and that's enough for Draco.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/goldentruth813) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Boiling Point](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18314348) by [aibidil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibidil/pseuds/aibidil), [GoldenTruth813](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813)




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